Choose Life, Choices, Book One
by lourdesmont
Summary: The sequel to "Puzzle Pieces". An old nightmare returns to haunt Raoul and Christine, Tallis and Erik. Choices made in their shared past will affect the present and their families. And two lost souls - Orla and Anders - come together to build a future.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: **Each and every day all of us are faced with choices in this life. We make small choices – what to wear, what to eat – that only affect us. We make large choices – right or wrong, good or evil – that affect not only us but all those around us. No matter when these choices are made have a way of coming back to haunt us. And ghosts need not only be relegated to the past or companions in the present – they can haunt our futures as well. So how can we learn from the effects of past choices so we can recognize them in the present and save the future? Those are the questions that will face Raoul and Christine, Erik and Tallis and their families as a nightmare from the past returns and a ghost in the present reveals itself. They will unwillingly come together as they are forced to examine their lives and the choices they have made as everyone struggles to save the promise of the future.

"Choices" is the sequel to "Puzzle Pieces" and "Golden Princess". It will finish what those tales began and be told in three parts. "Choose Life" where the choices of the past affect the present. "The Choice Before You" where the choices of the present affect the future. And "The Time Has Come Around" where past and present must be reconciled so that there will be a future. These stories were inspired by the song "Choose Life" by Big Tent Revival. Finally – once again – I must thank my friend's list on LiveJournal. Those people are a wonderful sounding board and a great source of wisdom and help. I could not have finished the outlines or even begun this story without their help.

**CHOICES **  
Prologue **–** Chagny – 1890

Monsieur le Comte de Chagny leaned back in his chair and sighed – a mixture of content and sorrow. He surveyed the images lining his desk and marveled at the ability to have loved ones close even if they were far away. Or gone. So many faces he remembered, so many lives that had touched his. He smiled as he looked at the images of nieces and nephews, laughing slightly as he thought that the photographs did not do justice to the vibrant lives the children led. The smile trembled and disappeared as he looked at the images of those no longer with him – Mathilde, the housekeeper who had mothered and indulged him; Arthur, who had joined his staff as an assistant and grew to be one his closest and most trusted friends. Eyes closed as he looked at the photograph of his brother's wife holding a tiny baby – a baby who had come into their lives and left almost before they knew he was there. Philippe turned his head to look out the windows of his study, toward the front drive and thought back to dark days when he had stared out those windows waiting for his brother to return, praying for a miracle, even as he knew that the dead never come back. A miracle had happened then and Raoul had come back to him but there would be no miracle for tiny little Hakon. The infant had truly died and now slept in peace with all those who had gone before him.

"Where I shall soon find rest," Philippe muttered and another sigh escaped his lips as the weight of centuries of family history pressed upon his heart. A knock came at the door, drawing him from his introspection. "Come," he called out.

The door to his study opened and for a moment Philippe thought it would be Arthur with papers to sign or Mathilde carrying a tray loaded with food and ready to scold him for neglecting his health and working instead of eating. But neither of those two dear friends that stood in the doorway smiling at him, it was Chase Toussaint – his brother's secretary. "Am I disturbing you?" Chase wondered.

"No," Philippe replied as he waved in the man holding a small tray with a teapot and sandwiches. "I am glad for the interruption."

Chase smiled as he kicked the study door closed and approached the desk, setting down the tray. He looked down at the framed photographs. "A bit of introspection?"

Philippe nodded. "Yes." A single finger went up to rub at a wrinkled brow. "I fear I am getting old and find myself seeking out the memories and friends of my youth for comfort. They bring me much joy." He shook his head. "You probably think me in my dotage and very foolish."

"In your dotage, yes; and you have earned the right." Chase agreed. "Foolish – I would never think such a thing."

His words put a genuine smile on Philippe's aged face. "Thank you for that." He motioned for Chase to take a seat. "No wonder my brother places such trust in you. It is a rare thing to find a man willing to voice such honesty without fear of retribution."

Chase began to pour out the tea, placing a small drop of milk and a spoon of sugar in Philippe's cup, just a touch of milk in his own. "I was brought up to always speak the truth – unless it was kinder to speak a small lie." He handed the cup and a plate with a small sandwich to Philippe. "The years I have spent in your brother's service have taught me when a lie is kinder than the truth." His eyes twinkled and Philippe was certain it was with merriment. "They have also taught me that a great sense of humor has blessed this family. Which is why I knew I could say such words to you."

"I am so glad that you were recommended to Raoul after Pierre Martin died. I know that he was feeling quite lost without someone he could turn to and trust implicitly." Philippe shook his head. "You came and quickly it was as if you had been with the family for years! You are quite amazing and talented."

"I was simply in the right place at the right time," Chase said simply. "I was very fortunate in having my previous employers see the potential that I had and be willing to let me go to someone who could take advantage of what I could do."

"And you have done it very well," Philippe admitted and turned his gaze to the pictures of his family. "But do you not miss your own family? It seems that you are always working and rarely from our side. Even now you are down here arranging the papers for the next horse auction when you could be with your family."

Chase studied the milky brown liquid in his cup. "I was raised from a tiny child to know my place in my family. They saw in me the same thing that your family and the other families for whom I have worked saw – my ability to conform to societal norms. It allowed me to find positions with grand families and help to support my own brothers and sisters."

"You do not often talk of your family."

"I try very hard to keep my work separated from my family." Chase shrugged. "It is not as if I do not hear from them on a regular basis. Or help them when I can. I even take the occasional weeks away from my duties to go and see my brothers." A strange smile crossed his face. "I am particularly close to my eldest brother."

"Much like Raoul is to me." Philippe shook his head and placed his teacup down. "Family is so important. At the end of the day, they are the ones who will always be there for you no matter your missteps or failings."

"No matter," Chase whispered.

A yawn claimed Philippe's next words before he could speak them. "I had not realized how tired I am." His eyes flicked to the mantle clock. "And at such an early hour. I must truly be getting old." His eyes turned back to Chase. "Have you seen my wife?"

"Madame is upstairs resting."

"I should join her." Philippe placed his hands on the arms of his chair. "Monique and I had so many missed years that now even simple things like taking an afternoon nap together seems like such a luxury." He steadied himself and tried to push up from the chair, unable to rise as shaking limbs forced him back to a seated position. "It is quite sad when I cannot even get out of my own chair." He tried to chuckle and could only yawn. "I am really getting old."

Chase put his teacup down and raised his face to Philippe, a strange and disturbing gleam in his eye. "And I would not plan on getting much older."

"Pardon?" Philippe shook his head again as little dots began to dance before his eyes.

Chase rose to his feet, quickly crossing to open a closed side door. He smiled at the figure standing in the doorway and stepped aside, allowing the man to enter.

"What…" Philippe's tongue felt thick. "What is going on here?" he demanded, his voice still managing to carry a tone of authority.

"What's the matter?" A familiar chuckle emanated from the new person in the room. "Don't recognize old friends?" He stopped in front of Philippe's desk and leaned over it. "What kind of noblesse oblige is that?"

Philippe's vision was growing worse and he found his thoughts jumbled but there was something about the man leaning over his desk that struck a chord deep within his memory. He looked at Chase, standing behind the stranger, smiling, a hand clasped to the other man's shoulder. They looked so alike despite the obvious differences in age and status. Where Chase was groomed and dressed, looking like every other respectable man on a city street, the other man was old and worn, his clothes poorly made. But there was something about the way that Chase held to the man, the way his eyes gleamed with almost a familial pride. It matched the gleam in the older man's eyes. It was that gleam that finally triggered the memory in Philippe's jumbled thoughts and his eyes grew wide with the memory as he slumped backward in his chair, unable any longer to sit upright.

"Nico," he breathed.

The living nightmare from the past smiled broadly, teeth uneven and neglected. "So glad to see you remembered me," Nico breathed.

Chase chuckled, drawing Philippe's failing attention. "It is not only your brother you can return from the dead. They pay the help so poorly at the asylums. It was easy enough to find someone who needed the extra money and was willing to slip _my brother_," he emphasized the words, "a drug that made it appear as if he had died."

"What… why…" Philippe fought to get the words out.

"The wealthy are always so gullible," Chase continued. "The Romas - my people - have always placed their smartest in good schools where we will be noticed when some fool with more money than common sense needs help to manage their lives. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time."

"My little brother always was the smartest of us." Nico began to move about the desk, toward Philippe who could do nothing but watch. "Just like your little brother was everything you never were." He stopped in front of Philippe and leaned forward, placing his hands over the ones Philippe rested on the arms of the chair. He patted the hands beneath his. "Not feeling too well, are you?"

Chase chuckled. "Your brother would be very familiar with the drug I gave you." His lips turned up in a smile.

"Your wife is very familiar with it." Nico nodded toward the teacup. "She had years and years of experience drinking it." The smile on his face was anything but pleasant.

"Just a small dose dissolved in the liquid and quickly a person is rendered helpless. They are completely malleable to the will of those in control." Chase moved around the desk. "Just as I have been all these years." He stood behind his brother. "Just as you are now."

Nico leaned in so that he could whisper in Philippe's ear. "Just like your brother was." He leaned his head against Philippe's. "But children – ah, children! – do not need the drug for they are not dangerous when cornered." He drew back and stared into horrified eyes. "And babies especially are so easy to control." Nico held up a hand and waved it back and forth before Philippe's face. "All it takes is one hand and one pillow and a little boy is dead in his crib and no one is the wiser."

Philippe had a sudden clarity of thought. _Dear God! Hakon…_

"I always said I would come back for my toys," Nico reminded Philippe. He turned his attention to his hand. "And now the Hand of God seeks the justice so long denied." The hand moved over Philippe's nose and mouth and the drugged Comte de Chagny could barely fight as life slipped away from him.

_Monique…_ came Philippe's last thought.

Nico finally released his hand and as Philippe's dead body slumped in its chair he turned to his brother. "That was not any fun," he said and frowned. "Too easy."

"But so well done," Chase said and grasped his brother's hand in congratulations. "Two down."

"One to go." Nico raised his eyes to the second floor. "But not until she can send for my favorite toys – the Vicomte and his pretty wife."

"The Comte and his wife," Chase gently corrected him. "And there are always other ways to play with your toys."

"Aye," Nico said and sighed happily. "My toys."

Two days later those "toys" were on a train bound for Lyon and from there to Chagny, grief holding sway over their hearts at the loss of an elderly and beloved brother. But there was also joy that he had lived a long and full life, able to share the last years with the woman he had loved for so long.

And that woman - Monique, the new Dowager Comtess de Chagny - climbed the stairs of the chateau she had called home for seventeen years. Hands that would cling to the marble banister to steady an aging body now held tightly to the arm of her young companion. Monique was glad that youth and strength walked alongside her for she was knew that should she once again collapse from overwhelming grief and loneliness no marble banister would catch her, would hold her, would comfort her. The man beside her had done so before and Monique trusted him to do so again. She turned to him and offered a wavering smile of silent thanks.

"That is a lovely – if understandably sad - smile," Chase said. "What did I do to deserve it?"

"Nothing," Monique told him. "It is just…" She shook her head and could not continue as a familiar lump returned to her throat.

Chase patted her hand. "I understand. It has been a difficult few days." He paused at the top of the stairs, watching and waiting as Monique negotiated the last riser. "I know that I feel the Comte's loss; I cannot even begin to imagine how deeply you must be grieving." He joined Monique in the upstairs hallway. "I am glad I have been here for you but I know that I am not your family." He walked with Monique down the hallway toward the rooms she had shared with Philippe. "But soon they will be here and even though I know that they will be grieving, as well; I also know that together all of you can bring comfort to each other. A shared grief is an eased grief."

"You are very wise for one so young." Monique's voice broke as she stopped before a closed door.

"It was a hard won wisdom," he said under his breath. "Are you sure you do not wish to take your rest elsewhere?" Chase wondered. "There are so many rooms in this chateau where you could rest without being disturbed by memories."

There was a moment of silence as Monique contemplated the door before her. Beyond the closed door, beyond what she could see and hear, her mind drew her back to happier times and she closed her eyes, finding solace in the sights and sounds. She could hear her husband's laughter as they rediscovered the joy that had been stolen from their youth. Bright blue eyes twinkled at her through the candles that lit their dining table. She could still feel the warmth of his compassion as he held her those first awkward nights of their marriage when she was still living in fear of older sensations, older memories. But Philippe's patience and the love that he had kept in trust for her all those years supplanted all the fear and the pain and she had finally grown into the loving, whole woman she had always known she could be. Now the memories of that compassion and love broke her heart and comforted her soul at one and the same moment.

"Madame?" Chase wondered.

"I know he is gone. That when I open this door Philippe will not be there but I also know that the moment I step through, I will feel him all about me." Monique sighed as a smile crossed her lips. "That is why I will not find rest in any other room in our home."

Chase's hand turned the knob and opened the door. "Then, please allow me to guide you to that rest." He stood aside as Monique entered before following, closing the door behind him. He watched as Monique moved toward the bed she had shared with her husband, sitting down, taking a pillow and holding it to her face, smelling the scent that still lingered there. He turned to a tray waiting on a nearby table. "I took the liberty of having Cook send up a pot of chocolate." He poured a cup and walked to Monique, holding it out to her. "I thought you might enjoy something sweet and I know that your late husband said you no longer drank tea."

"I do not drink tea. I have not been able to drink tea since my first marriage ended." Monique took the cup, sipping at it before returning it to Chase. "Thank you. That was nice but I am tired." She turned toward the headboard. "Oh, Philippe," she sighed and wiped at the escaping tears.

"Your family will soon be here," Chase told her as he placed the cup back on the tray and moved to the windows.

"I know. I am looking forward to having the children here." Her hand moved lovingly across the side of the bed where Philippe had slept. "They always bring such joy whenever they are here. Philippe always wanted to keep them with us." She nodded to herself. "Perhaps I shall return to Paris with Raoul and Christine and the children when the funeral … after everything is over." Monique's gaze roamed around the lonely bedchamber. "This is just too much to bear."

"The bright lights of a big city can always chase away the darkness of solitude," Chase said as he began to draw back the curtains.

"Solitude," Monique whispered. "I spent too many years alone in a marriage where I was only a trophy to be flaunted, a toy to be played with for his amusement." She sniffled back her tears. "I no longer wish to be alone."

"And we do not want you to be alone, pretty lady," a voice said. "No toy should ever be alone."

The voice drew her attention toward the windows where Chase stood, the drapes pulled back in his hand and a man she had thought dead standing beside him. Shock drove Monique to her feet, her hands going out before her, attempting to ward off the living nightmare.

"Say hello to my brother, Nico," Chase said calmly.

"How … why … I don't understand…" Monique stuttered.

Nico began to slowly and deliberately cross the room toward the pale woman backing away from him. "You took everything from me." A step forward. "My toy." Another step. "My new toys." The hunter took another step forward as his prey took another step back. "Now I am going to take everything from you." Nico stopped, his head going to his shoulder, his voice taking on a sing-song quality. "I took the little baby for the little baby I could not have." His head tilted to his other shoulder. "I took your silly husband for my toy that they took from me." His head straightened and he grinned at Monique. "And now I am going to get a new pretty lady for the pretty lady I lost."

"Oh God," Monique breathed as her back met an immovable wall and a hand went to her throat. She looked toward Chase and saw a stranger staring back at her.

"I never interfered when my brother was playing with his toys," Chase told her.

Nico moved around the end of the huge bed. "Are you ready to play with me, pretty old lady?"

Monique winced as her hand clenched and moved toward her heart. "Philippe," she breathed and crumpled to floor, eyes open, staring into eternity.

Nico crossed to her side, a toe reaching out to nudge a human who would never react again. He turned to look over his shoulder at his brother. "My toy went bye-bye."

Chase nodded. "I know." He smiled and winked at his brother, moving to his side. "But there are other ways – other toys – you can set up and knock down."

Nico was silent for a moment before his head began to nod enthusiastically. "Yes. Yes. Yes!" His head stopped bobbing and his eyes grew dark. "Knock down the new toys."

"Knock them down and take them away forever," Chase growled.

"Yes." A smile grew on Nico's face, huge and devoid of emotion. "Forever," he repeated happily.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Summary:** Christine goes in search of her husband and finds him in the family cemetery mourning those he has lost. His mood is driven by the conflict he has with his youngest son, Anders. That young man is staying at the beach house in Boulogne – safely away from his father's impatience - unaware he is being manipulated by those who wish to widen the gulf between father and son.

_**Author's Notes:**_ The Théâtre Monsigny is quite famous in Boulogne. It first opened in 1772 as a simple room for shows. The town decided to build a real theatre in 1823. Inaugurated in 1827, this theatre was destroyed by a fire in 1854. The current theatre – still standing and in use today – was inaugurated in June of 1860.

CHAPTER TWO

The sun was just beginning to descend from its zenith as she exited the ancient chateau through the back door. She paused on the portico for a moment, watching the sun, enjoying the warmth as winter reluctantly gave way to spring. She lowered her face, looked about the back gardens and sighed. They always looked so bare in the months between the last cold snowfall and the first warm rain. She knew that flowers and herbs slumbered just beneath the rich brown soil. There were tulips and daffodils and lilies – her beloved lilies that represented the strength of the life she had created with the man she loved. The man who was not coming back from the stables or walking about the gardens, checking on the status of the nature that would soon beautify their ancestral home. No, he was not here and she shook her head as she left the portico, walking through the garden, heading for the one place she knew he could be found. As she reached the end of the garden pathway, a bright speck of green caught her eye. A smile lit her worried face and she bent over to brush away windblown debris, freeing up the budding crocus.

"Spring always comes again," Christine said to the flower and stood, resuming her walk, heading across the lawns between Chagny and the family cemetery. "Too bad Raoul sometimes forgets such."

The grass beneath her feet was still damp and Christine was thankful she had put on the sturdy boots she usually wore when in the country. They kept her feet warm and dry even if the hems of her skirts were soon wet. Her strides were purposeful as she walked a straight line to the cemetery. A slight breeze blew in from the mountains to the south and her cheeks were soon red. She reached up and secured the ends of the scarf she had wrapped around her neck – there was no need for both she and Raoul to catch a chill. She slipped her hands back into the pockets of her coat and felt the gloves hidden there. She shook her head, leave it to her husband to forget to bring along his warm gloves. She was certain he had also forgotten his scarf and did not have his coat securely buttoned. When Raoul would disappear into the family cemetery, Christine knew she would be lucky if he remembered to come home on his own. She could not expect him to have a care for himself - that was her job.

"And I intend to care for you because I need you beside me," she whispered as she reached the edge of the cemetery and saw Raoul standing before familiar gravestones. Her memory turned back to a day when she had seen him walking up from the stables, talking with his brother and she had thought how handsome Raoul would be when he reached Philippe's age. She had not been wrong. He was still tall and slim but gray now touched his temples and laugh lines courtesy of his children marked the corners of still bright eyes. Her lips turned up slightly as the sight of him swelled her heart with an overflowing love. "Forever." Christine moved forward as silently as she could manage, not wishing to startle her husband from his reverie. "Monsieur le Comte," she whispered as she reached his side, slipping her hand through his arm.

Raoul winced. "I do not think I will ever get used to hearing myself called that." He placed a hand over the one on his arm. "I saw you coming. What did I forget?"

Christine could feel the cold of his skin through her own gloves. "I shall let you have a guess." She rubbed his hand.

"Ah," Raoul said. "I just could not stay in the house another moment. I felt as if the very walls were closing in about me. I needed some air and I found myself here." He raised his head and looked about him at the history beneath his feet before turning to his wife. "I am sorry."

"It is of no consequence," Christine told him and laid her head upon his shoulder. "I shall always have a care for you."

Raoul's attention returned to the two graves before him. "Just like Monique did for my brother." He sighed. "It is so hard to think they are both gone. And that they died within days of each other." He frowned. "Before we could even get here to say goodbye." He turned to place a kiss on his wife's head. "Philippe once told me that he found a great peace here when he thought I had died. There are times when I understand that. When I can feel the trust and approval of all those who carried our name as the look upon us. There are other times, though..." His voice trailed away as he turned to the small headstone beside Philippe's larger one. "It is such a small little thing."

"He was a small little thing." Christine's eyes grew distant with the memory of a child who spent far too short a time in her arms. "And happy. Hakon was happy. There was always a smile on his face whenever I would go into the nursery. He loved being held and reminded me of Isabelle because he was such a bouncy little boy."

"I miss him so much," Raoul whispered. "I barely got a chance to know my son and still I miss him as if I had years with him."

"We all do." Raoul hung his head and said something that Christine could not hear but she did not need to hear. She knew his words because she knew his heart. "You did not fail him," she said emphatically as she gripped his arm.

Raoul raised his head to the sky, closing his eyes against the bright sun. "Standing here, among all those who went before me, knowing their deeds…"

"And their failings," Christine interrupted.

"And their failings," Raoul repeated as he lowered his head and turned to his wife, "I just feel like another failure. I helped to bring Hakon into the world and I could not do enough to keep him here." He turned back to the gravestones. "I was not even here to say goodbye to my brother and his wife. Sometimes I wonder what kind of man I am. Am I worthy enough to bear all this history?"

Christine hit her head against her husband's arm in frustrated aggravation. It seemed so long ago when she had had to make a choice between a gentle, stable man who loved her unconditionally and a rather harsh, moody man who placed conditions upon her life and her heart. She had made her choice and awoke years later to find herself married to a man she had not chosen. She could not blame Raoul; although there were times when she did, she was ashamed to admit. He was not responsible for the changes in his personality – they were the consequence of what he had endured at the hands of those who had taken him from his family. But with the arrival of each child, Raoul's dark moods came less and less frequently. Then Hakon, their second son, had been found dead in his crib and Raoul's darkness returned. The death of his beloved and adored older brother had sent Raoul deeper and deeper into self-introspection. And there was always one other thing that would drive her husband from her arms and into a place she could not follow.

"I saw the letter from Anders in your study," Christine said softly.

Raoul shook his head as he thought of his youngest child. "What are we going to do with him, Christine?"

"Why do we need to do anything with him?"

Raoul removed Christine's hand from his arm and knelt down on one knee. He held out his hands, placing one on Monique's headstone and one on Philippe's before bowing his head in silent prayer. He raised his head and turned to the small headstone and the statue of a lamb sitting before it. Raoul reached for the lamb and hesitated before tracing a shaking finger over the statue. _I love you_, he mouthed before getting to his feet. He turned to look up the hill at the crypt that might have been his own and nodded in respect and thanks to the man who had died in his place before holding out his hand to Christine. "My gloves, please, madame."

"No," Christine replied a wicked little grin on her face.

"What?" Raoul was confused. "You walked all the way here to bring my gloves and now I cannot have them?"

Christine took a step forward and began to button the coat she had known Raoul would have open. She patted his chest as she did the last button, raising her face to smile at him. "No, you cannot have them." She slipped her own gloves off and placed her arm through Raoul's, wrapping her hands around it. Her smile softened as Raoul placed his own hands over hers. "That is a far nicer way to keep warm."

"Far nicer," Raoul had to agree as he stole a kiss. "What would I ever do without you?" he wondered as they began to walk back.

"I do not intend to ever let you find out."

"Good."

They walked in silence for several minutes, Raoul unwilling to face the letter and child that had driven him to find solace in the cemetery; Christine unwilling to push her husband and son farther apart than they already were. It was Raoul who finally broke the silence.

"Isabelle and Katarina are both married and happy in their lives," he began. "Olivier is graduated from university and newly married, ready to begin taking over some of the family business." Raoul winked at his wife. "That will give me more free time to spend with you."

"That is something I would like immensely!"

There was a touch of anger in Raoul's voice when he spoke again. "So please explain to me what is wrong with Anders?"

"He is still very young."

"No, he is not. He is going to be twenty-one and that is not young. He is just irresponsible!"

Christine could feel her head begin to ache. "What did he ask you for this time?"

"He wants to take another year off from university! And he wants me to fund him!" Raoul shook his head in disgust. "He wants to stay at the house in Boulogne and God alone knows what he is planning on doing there. He probably wants to chase girls along the beach." Raoul quickly bit his tongue before his next thought could slip out before his wife – _And bring them back to the house._

"Oh, I do not know that chasing girls along the beach is quite so awful," Christine replied, a giggle in her voice. "Look what happened to you when you chased me along the beach."

Her words put a smile on Raoul's face. "If only he could be so lucky." The smile disappeared. "Honestly, Christine, what are we going to do with him? He seems to be so aimless! I want to help but I do not know what to say to him, what to do for him." He sighed heavily. "I am not sure I even know my own son."

Christine stopped, forcing Raoul to do the same. She turned him so that he could look at her. "You do know him. All you need to do is look at me to see your son." A wistful look crossed her face. "Anders looks like me. He behaves like I used to do. He is unsure of himself and uncertain of where he belongs in this world. He is looking for something that he has not yet found." The wistful look was replaced by a happy certitude. "And when he finds it – just as I found you – he will know and it will make all the difference in his life. When that moment happens he will know where he belongs and what he is meant to do." Christine placed a hand over her husband's heart. "But until that moment, we must support him and love him."

"You want me to tell him it is perfectly fine to skip another year of university. You want me to support him and give him the means to sit around and do nothing." Raoul shook his head. "What is this going to accomplish other than letting Anders think he can have whatever he wants?"

"I am not asking you to let our son have free rein."

"No?"

"No. I am asking you to let him have what he wants." Christine took her hand from Raoul's heart and held it up as his mouth opened. "But let us put some constraints on what he wants." Her eyes narrowed as she thought. "I have a feeling that there is more going on here than he is telling us. He is up to something – of that I am sure – and I am also sure that I mean to find out what it is." Her look brightened. "I intend to go to Boulogne and find out just what our son is doing."

"Without me?"

"This time, my dear, yes." Christine slipped her arm through her husband's and continued to walk with him. "You and Anders love each other – this I know – but at the moment, I think it best if you and he kept a bit of distance until I can discover what he means to do." She patted his arm. "And you need not worry too much about him. I have already asked Chase to go and look in on our wayward son."

The sigh that escaped Raoul's lips was one of delighted relief. "Good. I can trust Chase to see what is before him and report back to me with candor and discretion." His next words were a reluctant and painful admission. "And my son likes Chase." He returned his wife's hand pat. "It will be good to have someone Anders trusts there." Raoul's voice lowered. "Someone I can trust."

The man in whom Raoul and Christine placed so much trust paid the driver and stepped out of the carriage to stand and look at the house by the sea in Boulogne. Years of training and generations of inbred instincts guided him to keep his facial expression neutral until the carriage had turned around and began the return trip to Boulogne. Then a sly smile crept across his countenance as the predator sized up its prey, laying out plans, reviewing options and just as quickly as the smile appeared, it was gone and Chase's face was composed and serene as he approached the front door of the house. He raised the knocker and stood patiently waiting for the door to open, one thought going through his mind – _Easy. This is too easy._ The door opened and a smile returned to his face. "Monsieur," he said and extended his hand to a surprised Anders de Chagny.

"Chase!" Anders exclaimed. "What are you doing here?" He looked around Chase's shoulder. "Where are my parents?"

"Still at Chagny, I would suspect."

Anders' eyes narrowed. "Did my father send you?"

"Your mother."

Anders heaved a huge sigh of relief and stepped aside. "In that case, then, please come in!" The young man with the dark curly hair and dark eyes waited until Chase had entered the comfortable home before closing the door. "I have a nice bottle of wine in the living room. Come and share a glass with me and tell me what my mother wants." He walked down the hallway to the bright living room where his mother had once received news of a miracle for which she could not have even hoped. He took a seat on the long sofa and poured out another glass of red wine as Chase took a seat beside him. "So," Anders took a sip of wine to fortify his nerves, "what does my mother want?" He took another sip. "My return?"

Chase smiled as he studied the drink in his hand. "No. She just wants to reassure herself that you want for nothing." He raised his head to look at the young man beside him. "And that you are behaving."

"Well, I am behaving." Anders nodded at the bottle of wine. "Except for the occasional raid on my father's wine collection. You will find no women in my mother's home or in my bed. I am not having drunken orgies. I am not having drunken anything! And if my father will only agree to my request, I will want for nothing."

"So you did ask him?" Chase held the confidences of the youngest Chagny child and had known of the letter sent to Raoul. He had, in fact, persuaded Anders to approach his father – it had not taken much persuasion.

"I did." Anders finally put down his glass. "He should have the letter by now. That is why I thought he had sent you. I am waiting for him to summon me back to Paris and then to order me back to university or have me press-ganged into the Navy. Perhaps he shall disown me or just lock me in my room until I come to his senses."

"That was not necessary," Chase frowned.

Anders looked embarrassed. "No. It was not." He ran a hand through already tousled hair. "I don't mean to bring up my father's painful past. I know he would never do such a thing to any of us. But, damn it all, Chase! He has a habit of bringing out the worst in me!" He reached out to smack Chase on the knee. "And it is nice to know I can say this to you because I cannot say it to my brother or sisters. I love the old man, I do."

Chase nodded. "I know that and I know that he loves you back."

"Sometimes I wonder." Anders turned to look out the window over the green lawns and toward the cliffs overlooking the English Channel. "Perhaps I should have been the one who died instead of my brother."

_We have other plans for you_, Chase thought but aloud, "I do not ever wish to hear you say that again! Do not ever let your mother hear you say such a thing! You do not know how she suffered after your brother died and how grateful she was when you were born."

"I would never do anything to upset my mother." His voice lowered. "I adore her." Anders returned his attention to Chase. "So, please tell her that I am fine." A crooked smile turned up his lips. "Tell her I am very thankful for the bank draft she sent and that I am truly behaving myself." The smile straightened and lit up the young man's eyes. "I have no choice because I have a chance to go with the touring company."

He knew that the young man held a deep fondness for the theatre and had managed to find himself an apprenticeship with the Théâtre Monsigny in Boulogne. "It happened?" Chase's excitement matched Anders' but for very different reasons.

"Not quite." A bit of Anders' excitement faded. "But if I continue to prove myself and behave, the managers say I can go with the company as an assistant to the tour manager! This very summer! It is everything I have ever wanted!"

Chase knew that, had encouraged it and counted upon it. "And when are you going to tell your parents you are actually working with the local theatre and not just sitting here being rich and idle? I think your mother would be very pleased."

"It is not Maman…"

"I think even your father would be pleased to know you have a direction in your life." Chase thought silently for a moment. "I know he wants you to finish university and get your degree but to follow in the family's footsteps of working with the theatre - ah! – that might help to narrow the gap between you and he."

Anders could not keep the note of hope from his voice. "Do you really think that might be possible?"

Chase placed his glass down – untouched – and put his hands on his knees. "Anything is possible!" He rose to his feet. "No, no. Stay. I know my way out and I must send a telegram to your mother letting her know that you are fine." He held up a single hand. "Not a word of what you are doing. I swear!"

Anders looked up at Chase, thankful there was one person he could trust with all his secrets. "Thank you." A puzzled look crossed his face. "You will come back for dinner? And to spend the night?"

"I will return for dinner but I have a hotel room in Boulogne. My train back to Paris leaves very early in the morning."

"Then we shall make an early night of it." Anders held out his hand and found it clasped warmly by Chase. "Till dinner."

"Till then," Chase agreed and left the house, walking back to Boulogne, his long legs and active mind making short work of the trip. Before he reached the city, he stopped at a small telegraph office just on the outskirts. He walked in and sent two telegrams – one to the Comtess de Chagny letting her know her son was well and not to worry. The other was sent to his family waiting patiently just north of Paris.

There were only two words in the second telegram – _This summer_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Summary:** Erik and Orla, his perfect living symphony, have a clash of wills. Erik does not want to let his daughter travel beyond their front door while Orla yearns for her freedom. Tallis must step in to deal with their volatile personalities and reconcile father and daughter while keeping peace and harmony in all their lives.

CHAPTER THREE

"Please?" she asked softly.

"No," came the equally soft answer.

"Please?" she tried again, a bit louder.

"No." The answer was also louder and tinged with a bit of anger.

"But why not?" Orla wanted to know as she stood in the doorway to her father's music room, her foot tapping impatiently.

Erik put down his pen and placed his hands gently on the piano keyboard before him. "Because I am your father and I forbid it."

"At least have the courtesy to tell me why!" Orla's tone was full of frustration.

Erik refused to turn around to face the angry young woman behind him. Instead he kept his gaze focused on his piano, on the work before him and slowly counted to ten. "I am your father," he repeated, "and, therefore, I do not need to explain my reasons to you. My answer is no, you may not go and let that be an end to it." He could hear deep breathing and closed his eyes in preparation for the outburst he knew was coming.

"You never let me do anything!" Orla shouted. "I am going to die an old maid here in this cottage!" She stamped her foot. "I hate you!"

"I still love you," Erik whispered.

"I don't care!" Orla's shout ended in an angry screech as she turned on her heel and ran from the room.

Erik heard the front door slam, knew where his daughter was going and knew he would not stand a chance against the two women he loved most in the world. He hung his head, burying his face in his hands. His perfect child, his beautiful golden princess had an awful temper and he was often on the receiving end of it. He wished she understood why he felt so protective of her. He wished he could explain it to her. He wished his beloved daughter did not cause his head to ache so – especially when there was work that needed to be done. He reached for his pen and fought to place his daughter's anger in the back of his mind – a fight he often lost and was losing again. Thoughts of Orla refused to be buried and the pen in his hand began to bend beneath strong fingers. "It is either you or her neck," he whispered to the inanimate object. He sighed deeply, stopped and placed the pen back in the inkwell. Erik reached up to rub his forehead and muttered words that he dared not repeat in polite company.

The young woman who caused him such grief did not have a similar problem as she stomped her way along the path beside the cliff edge, heading for Trevinny.

"Stupid old git," Orla muttered. She kicked at a rock and it went flying. "Thieving, lying…" She screamed in frustration. She was nearly running, skirts flying about her ankles. The words that poured from her mouth made no sense as Orla let anger best her. She was still muttering incoherently as she stormed into Trevinny through the kitchen, amusing the staff who had seen her tantrums before. She moved down a side hall, barely stopping to throw open a door and enter a room. "Damn impossible man!" she shrieked.

Tallis did not even look up. "Do close the door, Orla," she told her only daughter. "And do not slam it." She continued to write in her account book until she heard the sound of the door closing. Then Tallis put down her pen, removed her glasses and turned her attention to her daughter. "And if I ever hear such language from you again…" she warned.

Orla crossed her arms over her chest. "You call him that all the time."

"I am an adult. I am his wife. I have earned that right."

"Then I do not know what I am to call him!"

"Father, will do quite nicely."

Orla stared at her mother and broke into tears. Tallis rose from her desk and took her into her arms, guiding Orla to a nearby loveseat. She sat quietly, Orla's head on her shoulder, stroking her daughter's long hair and letting Orla cry out her anger and frustration. Tallis fought back the urge to sigh. How many times had she found herself sitting with a crying Orla in her arms after the child had fought with her father? Instead she made gentle shushing noises and waited until she felt Orla's shaking sobs begin to fade away.

"What happened?" Tallis asked.

"I asked if I could go with you to France."

This time Tallis could not keep the sigh from her voice. "Oh, Orla."

"And he said no." She turned a tear-streaked face to her mother and broke into tears again. "He said no!"

Tallis wondered when her daughter would ever learn to control her impatient nature. "Why did you not wait until I could broach the subject to him?" She took her daughter's chin and lifted her face so that they could look at each other. "As I asked."

"Because… because…" Orla sniffled and wiped at her wet cheeks before taking the back of her hand and running it under her nose. "Because I am tired of not being able to ask him for a simple favor!"

"Your father has never denied you anything!"

Agitation drove her to her feet and Orla began to pace back and forth. "But he will not let me go anywhere! He lets me have anything I want." She stopped pacing to stare at her mother, her expression a mixture of anger and hurt. "But he will not let me have my freedom!" She began to pace again. "He had no problem letting Gabriel and Michael have their freedom."

"You do not know that," Tallis said.

"He let them go to university. And they went on their own!" Orla had not heard her mother's softly spoken words. "But let me ask to go to France with my mother and you would think I wanted to elope with the first stranger who dragged me off the road! He is keeping me a prisoner here!" She stamped a foot. "He is old and mean and I hate him!"

"Are you quite finished?" Tallis asked in a tone of voice that indicated Orla was indeed finished. She waited as Orla composed herself and returned to sit beside her, the apologetic look on her face belied by the angry glint in golden eyes. "What do you say?"

"I am sorry." Orla dropped her eyes and frowned. "But I am not really sorry."

Tallis wanted to shake her child. "Orla!"

"Mama!"

Tallis placed her hands on her daughter's arms. "I want you to calm down and listen to what I have to say." She shook her head as Orla opened her mouth. "Not a single word!" She waited until Orla nodded before continuing. "I told you to wait until I could speak to your father about the trip to France. I did not ask you to do such a thing to make you unhappy or so that you would ask. I did it because there are things about us – about your father – that I knew would make him hesitant to allow you to come with me."

"But you go to France all the time!"

It was growing more difficult for Tallis to keep her patience. "It is not all the time! I have gone to France a few times over the years to deliver completed works for your father and at no time have I ever taken any of my children. Those trips have always been strictly business." She massaged her daughter's arms. "It is not as if I would not like my children to know the land of my birth. I want to take you with me this time but I need to be able to ask your father for his permission in my own way."

"Why?" Orla's head shook. "Can you not just tell me why?

How to explain The Phantom to a child who was the outward embodiment of the perfection for which Erik had strived but whose heart and soul had been molded by his turbulent emotions? It was a question with which Tallis had struggled from the time each of her children had uttered their first words. It was a question and a struggle she still faced each time the volatile natures of husband and daughter met in battle. "It is a wonder peace is ever declared," she said with a slight laugh and took a moment to compose her thoughts, wanting to protect her husband but needing to enlighten her daughter. "Your father led a somewhat colorful life in France and he has never been anxious to return. Here, at the cottage, he found a sanctuary. It is a place where he was able to truly be himself. It is – perhaps – the very first place he has felt safe. It is a place he can call home." She studied her daughter's face. "Do you understand?"

"No. Yes." Orla thought for a moment. "I don't know!"

"He is trying to protect you."

"From what, Mama?"

"Life," came the softly spoken answer. Orla was silent as Tallis continued. "Your father has seen things you cannot even begin to imagine. He knows what people are capable of doing. He just does not want anything to hurt you. He wants to keep you safe."

"He wants to keep me locked away like one of the princesses in the fairy stories he used to tell me. But I am not a princess and he cannot keep me locked away from the world." Some of the angry glint began to fade from Orla's eyes to be replaced by sadness. "I have not even fallen in love yet and soon I will be too old for anyone to even want to love me back."

"My dear, you are barely eighteen!"

"And I want to have some fun before I get too old! I do not want to be like my friends who marry young and have babies and never have a chance to do anything!" Orla looked like she was going to cry again.

Tallis could not help the small laugh that slipped past her lips. "First you want to find someone to marry and then you do not want to marry anyone." Orla's bottom lip trembled and Tallis took pity upon her daughter. "I am sorry." She placed a gentle hand upon her daughter's cheek. "In so many ways you are like your father – emotional and intelligent – but in other ways you are my child. I wanted the same things when I was your age. I was lucky enough to get them even though I was far older when I did." Love sparkled the stars in her eyes. "I found my dreams when I did I found your father; you should have the same chance."

"Do you mean it, Mama?" Orla felt fading hope return.

"Yes." Tallis rose to her feet, bringing her daughter with her. "But now you must return and apologize to your father." She a little frown wrinkled her forehead at the look that crossed Orla's face. "If you do not apologize to him, I will never be able to persuade him to allow you to come with me." Tallis knew how stubborn her daughter was. "He does love you. Do not leave him brooding over your harsh words. Do not brood over your own." She cocked her head. "Do not let this temporary disappointment become a hurt between you and your father that can never be healed. Such a thing would destroy him." She nodded. "I think it would destroy you both."

Orla stood silently before leaning in to give her mother a kiss on the cheek. "I will do as you ask." She sighed heavily. "Sometimes it is very hard to be his daughter."

"It is no easier being his wife," Tallis replied. "Now go. I still have some accounts to reconcile before I return but I shall be home in an hour or two. And I fully expect to find harmony and peace when I return."

"I promise, Mama."

It was a promise that began to weigh heavily upon her heart as Orla approached the front door of the cottage her family called home. She stood before the gaily painted door, hand on the knob, seeing more than just an impediment to entering the house; she saw all the doors that were closed between the father she adored and the stranger who often lived in that man's body. There was the man who sang to her, who taught her to read words and music, who let her run like a boy across the moors. He was the man who tucked her in at night with kisses and soft words. He was the man who kissed away hurts and hugged away sickness. But beyond that man, beyond the doors that were closed to her, was a stranger - the stranger who far too often told her "no". It was a stranger who could turn on her without notice, breaking her heart and locking away her dreams in a place she would never reach. Contrary to her mother's wisdom, Orla did not think she would ever understand the stranger who lived in her father. But he was her father and she did love him.

"And I am sorry for raising my voice to him," she practiced before opening the door. She stepped inside, gently closing the door behind her and stopped. Instead of the silence she had expected, there was music in the air. It was a music that sent shivers up her spine and stirred forgotten memories in the depths of her mind. Orla's eyes widened in wonder and she began to move in the direction of the melody.

She walked on tiptoe to the edge of the hallway and poked her head around the corner, looking down toward her father's music room. From where she stood Orla could see Erik sitting where she had left him, at his piano, back to the open door. It was from him that the music came. Music that was soft and gentle, sad and loving all at the same moment, sending Orla's spirit flying to a place she could not name. Acutely aware of her father's keen hearing and not wishing to break the spell his music cast, she continued to walk on tiptoe down the hallway. Almost to the door, ready to put down her heels so that Erik would hear her, Orla paused as her father hung his head and the music stopped. There was something to the set of his shoulders, the way his head was turned, almost as if he was listening to something only he could hear that made Orla's breath catch. "Papa," she said quietly. There was no answer and she moved to the door of the room, worried that perhaps her aging father was ill. "Papa," she repeated.

"I hear you." Erik's voice was nearly a whisper.

Orla turned her head so that she could look over her father's shoulder – there was no music on the piano. What he had been playing had come from his memory! "What was that music?" she asked, stepping into the room.

Erik raised his head and look around his room – at the walls, at the furniture – anywhere but at his daughter. "It is the music I hear in this cottage. It is the music of life."

"I think I have heard Mama humming that when she works. I think I remember her humming it to me when I was a small child."

"It is your mother," Erik told her. "It is everything that is good and beautiful about her."

Orla took another step closer to where her father sat. "It sounded so sad."

Erik finally turned around to his daughter. "There is always sadness in anything that is good, a beauty in the darkness." He nodded to himself as his thoughts turned inward, back to France, back to a different beauty, a sadder darkness. "It is a hard lesson to learn – even harder to accept."

"But what is that music? Why do you not need to have sheets before you to play it?"

"It is a music that lives within my heart. It is a promise fulfilled to your mother, written long before I knew that she saw the beauty in the darkness." Erik swallowed back the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him at the thought of the woman who shared his life. "Before I knew she was the beauty in my darkness," he whispered.

Orla watched the emotions washing over her father's face and she swallowed her pride, walked to his side and got to her knees. "Papa," she began as she took his hands into hers, "I am sorry. I did not mean to raise my voice to you. I love you. I do. I do not know why I get so angry and I did not mean to hurt you." She finally raised her head to look into Erik's face. "I am truly sorry."

Erik took back one of his hands to palm his daughter's cheek. "You are angry because you are my child." His face was a mixture of sadness and resignation. "I never thought to have children and when your mother presented me with first Gabriel, then Michael and finally you, I had hoped – and prayed," came the reluctant admission, "that none of my darkness or anger would touch those beautiful gifts." His head tilted slightly. "I was wrong and it was not to be."

Orla could not find the words to comfort the pain she heard in her father's tone but felt she had to try. "It is not your fault!"

"Let an old man wallow in failings, my dear child." Erik felt his heart breaking as Orla rested her head on his knee. "You really do want to go to France with your mother, do you not?"

"Not if you do not want me to go."

Her words finished breaking Erik's heart. His fears could not be her fears. His regrets could not be her regrets. The young woman kneeling at his feet was no longer the baby bouncing on his knee or the little girl holding to his hand. Somewhere in the last years she had grown and he had missed it and now – just as Tallis had once told him – he had to let her go. Erik placed a hand on his daughter's head and caressed the soft hair. "I will speak with your mother tonight." He felt gentle lips brush the back of his hand.

"Thank you, Papa."

The conversation held that night with the mother of his children did little to ease Erik's worries.

"Why does she need to go?" he wondered.

"Why do you not want her to go?" Tallis asked.

Erik paced back and forth, the heels of his boots clicking on the wooden floor, punctuating each agitated beat of his heart. "Do try and use the brain I know you possess, my dear. You are going to France. France does not hold the best of memories for me."

Tallis rocked back and forth in her chair. "No one has ever suspected who my mysterious composer husband is nor will I ever let them. And no one will know that she is your daughter."

He tried again. "You are going to Boulogne." He paused in his pacing, turning to his wife and narrowing his gaze. "Let us think for a moment at who lives in Boulogne."

"Erik." Tallis could not fight back the chuckle that escaped her lips. She heard her husband huff as he resumed his pacing. "Why do you not use the brain I know that you possess?"

Her words drew his attention and Erik stopped again, his face growing bright red. "Pardon?"

"It is March, Erik. March! The Paris social season will be over and the rich with any sense will be at their country homes, opening them for the summer." Tallis shook her head. "You know this. Meg and Val do it every single year!" Her next words were a gentler. "I am sure that Raoul and Christine are at Chagny doing that very thing." She waved a hand at the walls of their bedroom. "Why would anyone want to be next to ocean or the Channel during the very early spring? It is damp and it is cold and every single wind finds a crack in which to sneak into the house. You know this! You know how many repairs we have made to this cottage. I think that Raoul and Christine would rather be at their country estate than in their house in Boulogne."

Erik stalked over to where his wife sat and placed hands on the arms of the rocker, staring down into Tallis' face, eyes glittering dangerously. "I like being in this cottage by the sea at any time of the year," he growled. "I thought you did, as well. Or have I been mistaken in that, madame?"

Tallis reached up and kissed the end of her husband's nose, laughing as she settled back in her seat. "I like being wherever you are," she told him. "I would go with you to the very ends of the earth if it would make you happy." Her foot began to massage his calf. "And I love our cottage. I have never been as happy or content in my life as I have been these past years here at the very edge of the ocean."

"Vixen," Erik shot back as he grabbed her ankle. Her eyes twinkled back at him as her foot squirmed in his grasp. "I am not going to win this argument, am I?"

Tallis shook her head.

"And you are going to take my daughter to Boulogne, are you not?"

Tallis nodded. "Erik," she said, her tone grabbing and holding his attention. "She will be fine. We will stay in Madame Jaicinais' boarding house. I will deal with the theatre in Boulogne and Orla can enjoy a week or two along the Channel. She can watch the ships and walk the beach and perhaps I will take her shopping one day in the city or even in London on the way home. She and I will have a lovely time and return to you as two happy women." She arched an eyebrow at him. "And there will be no chance of any de Chagny's being there."

"Do you promise? Do you promise me that my daughter will not be touched by my past?" There was no answer and Erik wanted to reach down to shake his wife. "Promise me!"

"I promise."

"Liar," Erik said, knowing that his past had already touched each and every one of his children in some manner. He reached in and found a kiss. "I shall tell her she has my permission to go with you." He straightened and was turning to go when he felt his hand clasped by two smaller ones. He turned back to his wife and his heart stopped at the light that was shining from her eyes.

"Thank you," Tallis mouthed.

Erik could only nod, not trusting his voice. He turned on his heel and left the bedroom he shared with Tallis, seeking out the bedroom where he knew his daughter waited anxiously for an answer.

Tallis knew Orla had her answer as a happy shriek echoed off the walls of the cottage.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's Notes:**_The surname "Tollmache" comes from the Normandy region of France and means "bell ringer".

**Chapter Summary:** Isabelle and Katarina, Raoul and Christine's daughters share concerns about their younger brother. At Chagny, Raoul finds comfort in Olivier and his son's new wife, Sylvie. And at a farmhouse in the countryside north of Paris, Nico finds comfort with his brother.

CHAPTER FOUR

"You like tea, Mama?" Emelyne Dalliaire asked the woman sitting across from her.

Isabelle de Chagny-Dalliaire sipped at the imaginary drink, nodded and smiled at her daughter. "I like it very much."

Emelyne, the image of her mother when Isabelle was three, clapped hands and bounced in her small chair. She had invited her mother to a tea party in the nursery of their Paris home and now they sat with Emelyne's favorite dolls around a child-sized table, sipping at tea and eating make-believe sandwiches. "I had Cook," she nodded at a nearby doll, "make it e-special for you."

"Thank you, Cook," Isabelle acknowledged. She studied her youngest child from beneath her lashes and felt her heart fill with a love she had never known. There was something about the blonde curls and bright blue eyes that looked at her with such innocence and trust that made Isabelle's heart skip a beat. The feeling overwhelmed her and she reached a fingertip to dab at the corner of her eye; her daughter did not miss it.

"Do not cry, Mama," Emelyne said as she got up and went to her mother, wrapping little arms about Isabelle's waist.

"They are happy tears, my sweetest," Isabelle replied, planting a kiss on the top of her daughter's head.

"Happy tears?" A frown creased the child's face. "That's silly."

Isabelle laughed and sniffled back the last of her tears. "Mamas can be very silly." She pinched Emelyne's chin. "And now, my dear, it is time for a nap." She saw the fight brewing in Emelyne's bright eyes and a smile crossed her face as her own mother's words echoed in her memory – _I could always see your smart little mind working behind those big eyes, stubborn little thing_. "You really must take a nap so that you can sit up and have tea with Papa and Antoine when they come home."

At the mention of her two favorite men – father and older brother – the frown disappeared from Emelyne's face. A shy smile turned up the corners of her lips. "Do my dolls need a nap?"

"Most certainly," Isabelle nodded.

Emelyne turned from her mother and moved about the nursery gathering her favorite dolls. Soon the canopied bed dressed in pink linens had dolls of all shapes and sizes covering nearly the entire mattress. Emelyne climbed up and sat on the edge of the bed waving her feet at her mother. Isabelle smiled as she took off shoes, kissing wiggling toes and delighting in the child's giggles. Emelyne managed to find an empty space amongst her dolls and lay down, holding out arms to her mother. "Night, night, Mama."

"Rest well, Emelyne," Isabelle whispered and hugged her daughter. She kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear, "Sweet dreams." Emelyne grabbed a nearby doll as Isabelle stood and slipped her thumb into her mouth. Isabelle sighed knowing that Jean-Michel would not have approved and taken the thumb out. But her husband was not home and Isabelle was all too willing to indulge her children when the occasion presented itself. She stood watching as Emelyne's eyes slowly blinked closed before turning and leaving the nursery, closing the door quietly behind her. She encountered the au pair just coming up the back stairs. Isabelle held a finger to her lips and nodded at the closed door. "She just fell asleep."

"Yes, ma'am." The au pair nodded. "I was coming to find you." Isabelle looked puzzled and the nanny quickly continued. "Your sister is waiting for you in the front parlor."

Isabelle brightened considerably. "Stay with her," she instructed. "But only let her sleep for no more than two hours." She turned and headed down the front stairs, trusting the au pair to look after her baby. Upon reaching the first floor, Isabelle quickly moved to sunny parlor at the front of the house. She threw open the door and squealed in delight, "Katya!"

Katarina Coppens rose from where she sat and met her sister halfway across the room, smiling gently as a laughing Isabelle drew her into a tight hug. "I am happy to see you, as well," Katarina told her, a soft smile on her face.

The two sisters were a study in contrasts. Isabelle, blonde, blue-eyed and exuberant, dressed in the height of fashion as befitted the wife of an up-and-coming politician. Katarina, "Katya" to her family, dark-haired, blue-eyed and serious, her clothes much more somber than those of her older sister, appropriate for the wife of a young clergyman. Yet despite their differences, the sisters were devoted to each other and took great joy in each other's lives, husbands and children.

"When did you get to Paris?" Isabelle began as she kept Katya's hands and led her to a loveseat. "How long can you stay? Where are you staying? Did David come with you? Is Samuel here? The children would love to see Samuel!"

Katya could not help but laugh at her sister. Isabelle had always been the most out-going of all her siblings – some things could never change. "I arrived yesterday. I can stay for two weeks. No, David did not come he is at home, church business keeps him there." She brightened as the image of her two-year old passed through her mind. "Yes, I brought Samuel with me and, perhaps, we can take the children to the park for an afternoon."

"Oh, I would like that!" Isabelle's eyes narrowed. "You did not mention where you are staying." She giggled as Katya rolled her eyes. "You are not!"

"I am. Samuel and I are staying at Mama and Papa's."

"Oh, Lord!"

"Isabelle!"

"Katya!"

The sisters stared at each other for a moment before breaking into shared laughter.

"You know you are never going to get Samuel away from Maman," Isabelle warned as she got her laughter under control.

Katya nodded as she drew deep breaths, steadying her own laughter. "I know. I know." She grew serious. "But I received a letter from Olivier. He said that Maman was coming back to Paris and that it might do her heart good if she could see Samuel."

"I suppose he also told you that Anders and Papa are disagreeing again. That is why Maman is coming back here early. She is going to Boulogne in the hopes that she can reconcile their differences." Isabelle shook her head. "If anyone can perform such a miracle, it will be Maman."

"Only God can perform miracles," Katya reminded her. "But Maman can come close and I pray her much success. I love our brother and I adore Papa but I do not understand why they must always be disagreeing with each other." She sighed. "David says it is easier to understand the needs of our flock than to understand the needs of our own family. I think he is correct. I just… I just…"

"I know." Isabelle patted her hand in comfort. "I may not be as smart as Olivier or as studious as you." A self-deprecating laugh slipped out. "But this I know, until Papa can let Hakon rest in peace and be a pleasant memory, he is never going to be able to love Anders the way that our brother deserves to be loved – for himself."

Amazement crossed Katya's face. "Who says you are not smart?" she wondered and the amazement was replaced by a naughty twinkle in her eye. "Now can you please explain to me how I can save my son from his grandmama?"

Their laughter bounced off the walls.

And in the south of France at an ancient and historic chateau their brother, the Vicomte de Chagny, sat with his father in a familiar study, going over last minute instructions. Papers were spread across the desk between them, pens and inkwells nearby. A small fire burned in the fireplace on the other side of the room chasing away the chill of an early spring morning. The light from the meager flames would occasionally gleam off a strand of golden-brown hair from one of the heads bent over the desk and the papers and the inkwells.

One of those heads raised and its owner leaned back in his chair, a delighted sigh escaping from his lips. "You seem to have everything under control." The sigh was followed by an equally delighted smile. "That means I can leave everything in your capable hands and follow your mother to Paris."

Oliver looked up at his father. "I still cannot believe you let Maman go to Paris on her own."

Raoul shook his head at the memories. "Your mother has a habit of leaving Chagny to go to Paris on her own."

"So I understand." Olivier, a younger version of his father just as Raoul had been a younger version of his older brother, leaned back in his own chair. "I would never allow Sylvie to travel on her own!"

"My dear Vicomte," Raoul began and closed his eyes, hearing Philippe's voice saying those same words to him; he shook away that memory. "One day you will realize that you have married a woman who is just as strong and capable as your mother. Do not let that day be in the distant future."

Oliver, newly married to Sylvie Tollmache the past autumn, felt the heat rising in his neck. Much like his father, he preferred to keep the emotional, as well as physical, intimacies of his marriage behind closed doors of rooms and heart. "I promise, sir," he managed clearing his throat and reaching for a sheaf of papers, studying them closely. "Are you sure that these are the prices you wish to offer for the new foals? Could we not get more? Make a better profit on them?"

_So smart but still so young_, Raoul thought and aloud, "We could," he agreed. "But those are the prices I wish to offer to our best buyers. Should we raise the price too much, we will lose their good will as well as sullying our name. In the business of horse flesh, my dear boy, good will and name will carry you just as far as the breeding stock."

"I had not thought of it that way," Olivier admitted as he returned the papers to the desk. "There are times when I only see the bottom line – it is the way I was trained up at university. I do tend to forget family name when that happens."

"You should never forget the family name."

What Olivier might have said was interrupted by a soft knock on the door, followed by a young woman with auburn hair entering the room. His eyes lit up as his wife came to his side, a tray with a coffee service on it in her hands. He waited until Sylvie put down the tray before taking her hand and raising it to his lips. He smiled at the blush that colored her cheeks. "Thank you love," he mouthed.

Sylvie could not hold her husband's gaze for fear of melting at his feet and turned her gaze to her father-in-law. "I thought you both had been working so hard and could use some fresh coffee and pastries."

"You already know our weakness for sweets," Raoul chuckled.

"It is one of the things I love most about Olivier," she replied and felt her hand being squeezed. "One of many." Her blush deepened. "I should leave the two of you to finish."

Raoul could not help but notice her heightened color and remembered the days when a simple squeeze of her hand would bring such color to Christine's cheeks. Now their own intimacies had grown deeper and more secure and all he could think was how much he missed just having her in the same room with him. The thought was enough to heighten the color in his face. "I am leaving tomorrow and this young man of yours," he nodded at his eldest son, "has the business end of running Chagny quite well in hand." He smiled at Sylvie. "And I know that I can trust you to have the running of this house just as well in hand."

"I shall try, sir." Sylvie sighed. "It is a large task," she turned to smile at her husband, "but I have the best of teachers." Her attention turned back to Raoul. "I shall not let your or the Comtess down."

"I know you shall not."

"I must tend to things, so I shall leave you gentlemen to finish your work." Sylvie turned back to Olivier and sought a kiss before leaving the room, knowing his eyes followed her as she left.

"She is a good woman and a wonderful Vicomtess," Raoul said softly as the door closed.

"She is," Olivier agreed just as softly. "I am so blessed to have found her."

"I pray your brother will be as blessed."

Olivier turned back to his father. "Sir…"

Raoul held up a hand. "I know and I did promise your mother that I would not worry about Anders and that she could handle the current situation. I just… I cannot help it. He is my son and I do worry over him and I do love him."

"You ought to be saying that to him." Olivier studied his fingers.

"I should," Raoul agreed. "I shall." He turned to look out the window at the long drive that led to the front door of Chagny. "I will."

The de Chagny's were not the only ones consumed by family thoughts and worries that day. In the countryside north of Paris, an elegant young man dismounted from an equally elegant horse. Confident strides took him to the front door of an isolated farmhouse. He did not knock on the door but opened it and walked in, pausing as he listened to the sound of voices. Footsteps guided him in the direction of those voices and he found himself in a huge kitchen, men and women - not nearly as elegant as he - gathered about. An older woman, her face showing the hard life she had lived, turned at the sound of his footsteps, her face lighting up.

"Chase!" she exclaimed.

"Maman," Chase replied as his mother drew him into her arms. He held her tight for a few minutes, her smell of onions and cabbage drawing him back to his youth.

"What are you doing here?" his mother wondered as she drew back. "Should you not be attending to those people?" The spit flying from her lips punctuated her question.

"Those people," Chase could not keep the disdain from his voice, "are scattered from one end of France to the other. They can live without me for a day or two."

An old man playing cards at the table with other old men, raised his head. "What of our plans? You are not neglecting them, are you now, boy?"

"Trust me to see this through," Chase said in a tone of voice that chilled the old man and sent him back to his card playing. Chase returned his attention to his mother. "Where is he?"

His mother nodded toward the back door. "Out there. You know he cannot bear to be kept behind locked doors."

Chase patted his mother's shoulder. "I know," he acknowledged. "I am going to go to him."

His mother watched as Chase left the kitchen, heading for the fields beyond the back door. "Such a good boy," she whispered and returned to the pots simmering on the hearth.

Chase knew that his mother watched him leave the kitchen. He also knew that the others gathered there did not, they did not dare. He was the smart one, the one upon whom they placed all their hopes. The one who would see all their plans come to fruition. He was their light and salvation and Chase took great pride in the power they gave him. It was a power that would see justice done for the man who sat silently in the middle of the field, his head raised to the sky. "Nico," he said as he walked off the back porch and to where his brother sat. "Nico," he repeated as he sat beside his brother, not caring about the grass and dirt that stained his expensive pants.

"Chase," Nico said and leaned over, laying down on the grass and placing his head on Chase's lap. "Have you ever seen how the clouds talk to us?"

"I cannot say that I have," Chase replied, a hand caressing his brother's head.

"They say all kinds of things," Nico continued. "Everything talks to us." He shook his head. "I could not hear when I was in that place." A vile look crossed his place. "It was so quiet." He turned to look up at Chase. "But ever since you got me out, I can hear them again."

"It was well done of us, was it not?" Chase smiled as he remembered paying off a lowly aid at the asylum to which Nico had been banished after his trial for what had been done to Raoul. It had been all too easy for the man who cleaned up after his brother to slip him a vial of liquid that simulated death. The drug had been known to his people for ages and had worked its magic. Nico had been assumed dead and the aid delivered his "body" to gypsies instead of to an anonymous grave behind the asylum. Chase hoped the aid had enjoyed his payment – for the short time he was alive to enjoy it. "Never leave behind unfinished business," he whispered.

"What?" Nico wondered.

"Nothing," Chase assured him. "I was just thinking how nice it is that I can care for you now, the same way you cared for me when we were children." He continued to caress his brother's head. "You stay here with Maman and our family and be safe and happy." He smiled. "You listen to your voices and watch the world go by and enjoy the freedom that should always be yours."

"But the voices say I have to get those people. I have to get my toys picked up and put away," Nico pouted.

A look of fierce determination grew on Chase's countenance. "You leave those people to me, big brother. You have done enough, it is my turn now."

"But my toys…"

Chase smiled down upon his brother. "I will see that you get your toys back so that you can put them away. I promise." There was no humor in his smile. "I promise."

"You are such a good brother, " Nico sighed happily and returned his attention to the clouds, humming along with the voices he heard.

"You are most welcome," Chase whispered.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Summary:** Erik and Tallis' eldest son, Gabriel, finds an unexpected visitor at the door to his London flat. Erik finds the same unexpected visitor in the great room of his home. Tallis finds herself in France with a giddy daughter who holds a bloodthirsty secret. And on the sands beside the English Channel two souls meet and so it begins…

CHAPTER FIVE

It sounded like the plaintive cry of a young woman. Rising in pitch until the cry became a scream, a sound of desperation, and slowly began to fade. The desperation gave way to resignation as the scream diminished until all that remained were the reverberations of soft notes against unyielding walls. He sat still upon the hard chair and listened to those notes, hearing them as they floated away on the air and shook his head. Eyes closed as he envisioned the sounds, the cries and screams that slowly gave way to a peaceful resignation and he nodded in acknowledgement. His eyes opened as once again the violin was raised to his chin, bow poised over the strings. Just as he began to again coax the cry from his instrument a knock came at the door and a curse slipped his lips as he placed the violin down and walked to the door.

"What do you want?" Gabriel Herrin growled as he flung open his front door.

"Temper, temper," Michael warned his older brother with a grin, gray eyes sparkling with merriment.

"Dammit, man!" Gabriel grabbed his brother's hand and nearly dragged him into his small London flat. He shut the door and looked at Michael before wrapping him in a bear hug. "What the deuce are you doing here? Are you not supposed to be studying in Scotland?"

Michael extricated himself from his brother's grasp, hands moving to smooth a newly wrinkled jacket. "What a surprise, Michael! How nice to see you Michael! What are you doing in London, Michael? How long can you stay, Michael?" Michael flashed another grin at his brother. "Can I buy you a couple of pints and something to eat, Michael?"

"You are hardly a starving student," Gabriel said as he grabbed the carpetbag his brother carried and tossed it onto a nearby divan. "Just give me a moment." He turned back to the chair in the middle of the room. He crossed to it and gently picked up the violin, placing it back into its case and snapping the case shut.

"Just like Father," Michael said his tone soft and loving.

"Damn fine teacher," Gabriel replied as he grabbed a jacket from a peg. "There's a great little place at the corner. They have halfway decent fish and even better pints. I'll buy if you agree to buy one round."

"Done." Michael nodded.

"How did you manage to catch me at home?" Gabriel wanted to know as he locked his door and slipped the key into his pocket.

Michael shrugged. "Just took a chance. I figured you were either here or at the opera house. If you weren't here, I was prepared to sit outside your door until you got back."

"I know you enough to believe you would have!"

"I have never been able to keep anything from you!" Michael chortled as he threw an arm about his brother's shoulders.

"Including your arms," Gabriel grumped.

Michael rolled his eyes.

Three hours later found the brothers seated in a corner of The Hart and Swan, a public house on the corner of the street where Gabriel lived. He was a familiar sight at the pub, usually with a sheaf of music papers before him. This evening, though, there were no papers on the table; instead two empty pints sat in the middle of the table, two nearly full pints before the men on either side. A simple dinner of fish and chips had ended over an hour ago and now the brothers sat and talked over their favorite ale.

"You never did say what in the blazes you are doing here." Gabriel reminded his younger brother. "You had best not be skipping classes." His eyes narrowed. "You have not failed out … have you? It would kill Mama if you are sent down!"

Michael took a sip of his drink. "Oh, do give me some credit, old chap. I have not been – as you so quaintly put it – "sent down" nor am I skipping classes. I received permission to take a three-week break from my studies and I had to promise my dean that I would bring along my current project and have it finished when I return."

"So what are you working on?"

"The class has been given the outline of a ruined castle and we must rebuild it from the ground up to meet modern day requirements." Michael's eyes glittered with enthusiasm. "I am on the second floor already! I have given it sitting rooms and a traditional baronial hall and even managed to work in a few discreetly placed WC's."

Gabriel raised his glass in toast. "You are going to be a bloody brilliant architect someday. I should have you design me a home when I am a rich and famous maestro."

"And how is that coming?"

"Slowly," Gabriel admitted with a grimace. "It's a bit humbling to be reminded you are only third violin when you are constantly given new pieces of music to arrange. Damn fine way to keep my ego in check."

"Glad to know someone other than Father has learned how to do that," Michael whispered, the twinkle back in his eyes.

"Brat." The brothers sat in silence as the noise of the pub swirled about them. Each of them lost in images seen in the amber liquid that trickled down their throats and tingled their fingers. "So," Gabriel finally continued, "are you going to tell me what brings you down from the bleak highlands?"

"Glasgow is hardly the highlands," Michael corrected and grew serious. "I had a telegram from Mama. She said she was going to France and taking Orla with her – which amazed me to no end. She suggested that Father could use come companionship while they were gone." He shook his head. "At first I could not believe that she managed to get Father to let Orla out of her ivory tower. Then I thought that even with Aunt Moira and Uncle Joseph and the cousins, Father would be at a loss alone in that cottage. So I told my dean that my aged father was suffering from an indisposition and my mother needed me at home for a short period of time. The dean is a decent fellow and agreed – as long as I get my plans finished."

Gabriel looked at his empty pint and signaled for the barmaid. The girl nodded at the two fingers he held up and winked before turning to the bar. She was glad he could not see the blush that crept up her cheeks for despite the scarring that could be seen beneath the thick dark curls, he was a handsome man. He was tall and thin and carried himself with a dignity far beyond his years – almost as if he were born of royalty. But it was his eyes that caught and held the attention. Those eyes that seemed to bore directly into your soul, discovering all your hidden wants and desires. The girl shook those thoughts from her mind as she picked up the two pints and delivered them to the table where Gabriel sat. She took a look at his companion – surely a brother – and did not feel the excited apprehension she did when she looked at Gabriel. In those other gray eyes she saw only a warm openness and a serenity that chased away the darkness that Gabriel could bring. A bright smile lit her face as she gathered up the two empty pints and walked away, a bit lighter in her step.

"I, too, had a telegram from Mama," Gabriel said and drew a long swig from his pint before continuing. "Mama said that on her way back from France she would be stopping in London to take Orla shopping. I just about fell off my seat when I read that! Same reaction as you – I cannot believe she got Father to let Orla go anywhere beyond the end of Trevinny's drive. So I will be seeing them in two weeks. Mama is taking us out to dinner for an evening." He looked over the rim of his glass at Michael. "I cannot believe she sent you a telegram asking you to look in on Father."

"Who was she going to ask – you? Mama knows you cannot leave the symphony. I was the only logical choice." Michael grinned and laid a hand over his heart, assuming the disposition of a martyr. "So I shall nobly lay aside my studies to go to the windswept moor and care for my aging – and liable to be very grumpy – father. I do this with the hope that it shall earn me a few centuries less in Purgatory for God knows that I shall need them."

Gabriel's eyes finally lit with amusement. "Barmaids?"

Michael raised his glass in salute. "Hat shop girls!"

Gabriel raised his own glass in salute and the brothers' musical laughter rang out over the pub's noisy crowd.

Michael was still laughing to himself a day later as he walked down the cliff path toward the family cottage. The sun was just beginning its descent into the west and the deep blue of the ocean was heightened by shades of lavender that colored the sky. He could not help the laughter that escaped from his lips as thoughts of childhood raced through his mind. He remembered running with his brother and sister along the cliff edge, being caught and warned against doing such a thing and the minute their parents' backs were turned, going right back to their game of chase. There had been so many other moments – moments stolen from their parents' ever-watchful gaze – the three of them had broken rule after rule. It was a memory that filled him with happiness and an amazement that his mother had managed to break their father's unspoken rule of never letting Orla from his sight.

"I should not be surprised it was Mama," Michael said to himself as he opened the front door of the cottage. He put his carpetbag down and went to the hearth. He picked up a log from the pile and put it on the glowing embers, poking and stirring. He sighed happily when the log caught fire. He placed the poker back and held chilled hands toward the warmth coming from the dancing flames. He heard a door open and turned around, a smile on his face.

"What the devil…" Erik began as he walked in the back door.

"Hello, sir," Michael began as he walked toward his father, hand extended in greeting.

"Why are you not at school?" Erik demanded, ignoring his son's outstretched hand.

"I had a telegram from Mama and she thought…"

"I do not need a babysitter!" Erik interrupted.

Michael stood his ground. "No, you do not," he agreed. "But perhaps – just perhaps – you could use some company from your son." His gray eyes were as calm as the sea after a storm. "And maybe you could offer some advice as I redesign a ruined castle for my current class."

Erik looked into those calm eyes and saw Michael's mother. It was the same look that Tallis gave him when she knew she was right and he was wrong. Even with his wife on another continent, Erik knew he would not win this argument and he was glad of it. He would not admit he was lonely and missing wife and daughter desperately. He would not admit that he missed his sons now they were grown and off creating their own lives. He would not admit he was glad to see Michael standing before him. He would admit – only to himself – that he was relieved the only part of him that seemed to touch Michael was the scarring cleverly hidden by dark curls. Michael – more than any of his children – was everything good and decent about the woman who had given birth to him. He was even-tempered and intuitive and funny and managed to find something good in everything._ More beauty in my darkness_, Erik thought as a smile began to grow and he grabbed his son's hand. "Where is this castle?"

Michael nodded toward his carpetbag. "In my portfolio."

"Bring it into the kitchen and I shall put a kettle on. Your mother left a jar full of cookies so we can have tea and cookies and an honest critique."

"Good!" Michael nodded happily. "I value your opinion, you know." He winked and bounced slightly on his toes just as he had done when a small child. "I value it almost as much as I value Mama's cookies!"

Erik laughed. "You do know how to get round me." He shook his head. "Just like your mother." At that same moment – a continent away in a land Erik had consigned to Hell – the mother of his children was dealing with her own bouncing child.

"France, France, France," Orla sang as she skipped about the suite she shared with her mother. "I am in France!" She lightly touched each item she passed. "And everything is French!"

Tallis shook her head and sighed. She had always known there was an enthusiasm within her daughter that could not be contained. It was the enthusiasm of a child presented with something new and unknown. It was the same enthusiasm she had seen as Erik had discovered each new and unknown thing that life had prevented him from knowing. She had seen it with each of her children and they had outgrown the childlike wonder as they passed from adolescence and became young adults – except for Orla. Her only daughter had never lost her childlike wonder and enthusiasm; it had just been locked away in an ivory tower -a tower whose walls had now been breached. Tallis straightened from where she had been unpacking a trunk and turned to the room in time to see her daughter twirling with her arms outstretched and she broke into laughter.

"What?" Orla wondered as she stopped twirling.

"Your happiness is contagious," Tallis told her.

Orla giggled and plopped down on a nearby chair, her feet waving in the air. "I am happy! Happy! Happy! Happy!"

Tallis joined her daughter in the other seat. "Do not ever let your father see you so happy without him. It would break his heart."

"I know," Orla said as she straightened her posture, putting her feet on the floor. "It is just so nice to see different things, to see the world beyond our corner of Cornwall." She frowned a little. "And it is not that things are different because everything looks the same. Well, except for what I could see of the cities from the train. They are so big!"

"You will see more of that when we stop in London on the way home to visit your brother." Tallis smiled. "You will be amazed at the shops compared to what we have in Kingsand. I could take you into Boulogne to shop after I get done dealing with the managers at the theatre."

"I can wait till London," Orla assured her mother. "I am looking forward to seeing Gabriel and the shops. Right now I just want to have some time to myself – by myself without someone always watching me. I want to read a book. I want to go to the village with Madame Jacinais. I want to watch the ships in the Channel. I want to walk the beach and feel the wind in my hair."

A dubious look crossed Tallis' face. "I am not so sure about that last one. This is not home. This is not our beach. It is not a place where you are known and people will watch for you."

"I can take care of myself." Orla could not bear the sudden question in her mother's eyes and dropped her own. "Well, I can."

Tallis could feel her heart drop to her stomach. "What did your father do? What did he teach you?"

Orla slowly got to her feet and crossed the room to her trunk. She knelt down and reached deep, almost to the bottom. When she stood she had a small box in her hand. She returned to her seat and sat down, placing the box on her lap and opened it.

"Oh dear God," Tallis breathed as the color drained from her face. As she studied the small pistol on her daughter's lap, the color returned to her face as her anger grew. "I will absolutely kill him!" She began to rise to her feet and found herself stopped by Orla's hand on her arm.

"It is not Papa's fault. I made him teach me," she admitted and waited until Tallis was once again seated before continuing. "When he would take Gabriel and Michael out on the moor for shooting, I would tag along. I wanted to do what my brothers did but Papa said no, that the big rifles and pistols would be too much for me. He said the recoil would plop me on my bottom and that would negate the idea of using a gun for protection. He brought me this small pistol and taught me how to shoot and I am good shot, Mama! Papa taught me to shoot at the knees to disable someone from coming after you and then to shoot at the shoulders to finish disabling them. Then I am supposed to go for help." She watched the emotions play across Tallis' face. "I know it is terribly blood-thirsty and completely unladylike but…"

Tallis held up a hand to stop her daughter and then used that hand to rub her forehead. "It is done and let that be an end to it. I know your father had his reasons and I know they are valid but…" She shook her head and was silent as she composed her emotions. "I guess you really can take of yourself."

"So… I can go to the beach?"

"Yes, you can go to the beach," Tallis had to agree and found herself wrapped in her daughter's arms as Orla squealed delightedly in her ear.

So it was that early the next morning, Orla found herself walking along the beach, small pistol safely concealed in the pocket of her skirt. She had enjoyed a very early breakfast with her mother before Tallis left to attend to Erik's business in Boulogne. She would be gone for a few days and had extracted a promise from Orla that she would behave and listen to Madame Jacinais. The minute that her mother's carriage had disappeared around the curve in the road, Orla ran for the path that led down to the beach along the Channel.

It was the middle of March and the breezes off the Channel were brisk, heightening the already excited color in Orla's cheeks. Her golden eyes sparkled as she watched the seabirds twist and turn in the blue sky. She stood still and watched as the fishing fleet made its way down the Channel for a day's hard work. Orla did not know if the men in the boats could see her but she waved them on anyway before she continued to stroll along the cool sand. She kept her senses heightened and watched for others doing as she did but there was no one else on the beach in that early hour. Orla stopped to watch the waves lapping at the shore – so different from the angry ocean that beat at the edge of her own beach.

"The wind in my hair," she said to herself, reaching back to undo the green ribbon that held her long hair in place. She raised her head and closed her eyes, feeling long tresses blowing about her face. _More_, she thought. _I want to feel more._ Orla opened her eyes and unwound the scarf from about her neck, dropping it in the sand as she walked toward the waves, wondering how cold they would be. She divested herself of her gloves as she reached the water's edge and began to bend over, bare hands reaching for the ebbing waves.

"Mademoiselle?" a voice called out in question.

Orla's hand reached for assurance that her pistol was still in her pocket before she straightened and turned around.

A young man stood there, holding out her scarf. "I believe you dropped this."

Orla could not find her voice as she stared into the darkest eyes she had ever seen.

"Mademoiselle?" he tried again.

Orla held out her hands. "Y...y…yes," she stuttered. "Thank you." She could not feel her legs as he smiled at her.

"English," he said, changing languages. "Forgive me. I assumed you were French."

Orla was certain her heart was ready to pound from her chest. "Yes," she breathed. "I am English." She was silent for a long moment as she struggled to find her way back from the depths of his eyes.

He rolled his eyes – just like her brothers would do. "My manners," he mumbled and held out his hand. "I am Anders de Chagny."

Orla took his hand and felt the warmth from it spread throughout her body. "Orla Herrin."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Summary:** Katya has a strange request for her mother. Christine shares some insight with her daughter. Chase goes over his family's plan to destroy the de Chagny's. And on a beach beside the English Channel hopes are realized as two lost souls meet again.

CHAPTER SIX

"Who is Granmama's little man?" Christine asked, laughing with delight as the baby in her arms blew bubbles. Samuel, only child of her youngest daughter, Katarina, stood on her legs, bouncing and giggling as Christine hummed and swayed his arms in time to her song.

Katarina stood in the door of the parlor, smiling upon mother and son with indulgence. Straight dark hair was pulled back and wrapped in a bun; a nursery apron covered a simple gown of dark blue. The only indulgences she had given to being back in Paris were a large gold cross about her neck and sapphire-studded hair combs nestled in her bun. "You are just encouraging him, you realize."

"I have been encouraging the men in my life since I was younger than you," Christine replied without looking at her daughter.

"Mother," she sighed shaking her head as she entered the room.

Christine made a silly face at Samuel and laughed with him. "You tell your maman when she is as old as I am, she can say silly things about the men in her life, as well."

Katarina rolled her eyes and took the child reaching for her. She sat him in her lap, hugging him close, stroking the dark hair on his head. "Mother…"

Christine leaned back on the sofa, crossing her arms. "Mother," she sniffed.

"Maman," Katarina tried, opening her blue eyes very wide. "You know I have never encouraged any men outside of my husband."

"The things my children do to placate an old woman…"

"And you are hardly old!"

That statement brought smile to Christine's lips. Each morning her mirror reflected back each of her forty-six years. It was in the lines at the corners of eyes and lips. It was in each new silver hair she discovered in her comb. It was in the curves of a still-trim body finally filling out as she approached old age. She knew she was no longer the teenager who had so captivated a young man from her past and an older man who made her feel things she had not been able to express. Now the other man was gone taking with him her childish dreams and the young man had aged with her. He still loved her and was capable of making her feel things she could now name – desire, passion and a love that transcended all emotions and made them part of a greater whole. "No, Katya," Christine told her, "I am old and it is a very fine thing." The smile that lit her face spoke of dreams set free and hopes realized and she reached out a hand to touch the soft cheek of a baby with droopy eyes. "Enjoy your youth, my dear; but do not forget that with age comes a wisdom that makes each pleasure all the more precious and to be treasured."

Katya looked at the baby on her lap and lifted him, placing him in the small cradle beside the sofa. She gave a last touch to her son before turning back to her mother. "I promise." She was silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "I think I understand – perhaps better than Isabelle or Olivier or Anders. I think it comes from being a pastor's wife." Her voice lowered. "David and I see things … such things, Maman!" And the sparkle returned to her eyes. "Things that would curl Isabelle's hair even more."

"It is good to know that even a pastor's wife can retain a sense of humor."

"Just because I am married to a pastor does not mean I have turned into a recluse!"

Christine nodded at the combs winking in her daughter's hair. "I see."

Katya looked over her shoulder at her sleeping child and turned back to her mother. "May I ask a question?" She waited until Christine had nodded. "Why did you and Papa not object when I turned my back on the privilege and luxury of my childhood to marry David?"

"For the same reason we approved of Isabelle marrying an older man and gave our permission for Oliver to marry at almost the same age your father married me – you were all in love." Christine shrugged. "I cannot truthfully say we would have been pleased had any of you have chosen to marry a beggar in the street but only because of the money placed in trust for each of you. It is a very sad statement but the inheritances were a large factor in our decisions. Jean-Michel is wise enough to manage Isabelle's inheritance without squandering it or letting her squander it. Olivier and Sylvie are perfectly suited for each other – both of them country folk at heart." Her smile grew wistful. "Much like your Uncle Philippe and Aunt Monique." She nodded to herself. "They will manage Chagny so it will always be there for those to come. Isabelle – with Jean-Michel's guidance – will glitter all about Paris." Christine reached out for her daughter's hand. "And the money you brought to your marriage will help you and David do much good for those to whom you minister and still leave enough for your children to never want."

"So you do not mind about David…"

Christine patted Katya's hand and pooh-poohed the very notion. "Hardly!" She grew serious. "You are much like your father and I – in places that neither of us would ever admit to another soul. You are sober and faithful and you have a wisdom and compassion beyond your years." She thought about what she had said. "Actually – you are nothing at all like any member of this family!" The wistfulness returned. "No, that is not true. You are much like your Uncle Philippe." She took her hand back and touched Katya's face. "And your father and I are so glad of it."

"Thank you, Maman. I love hearing that; Uncle Philippe holds such a special place in my heart." _Now is as good a time as any_, Katya thought and cleared her throat. "And speaking of family…" She saw the question in her mother's eyes and inwardly cringed as she thought of what she was going to ask. "David is wanting to go home."

Christine sat a bit straighter, trying to see over her daughter's shoulders. "Oh no! I will never get to see my grandson!"

"He is wanting," Katya emphasized the word, "but that does not mean he can. David must go where the church elders bid him to go." A blush began to color her cheeks. "Unless of course…" She dropped her eyes beneath her mother's sudden curiosity. "And he was… we were…"

"Am I that much of an ogre that you cannot ask your own mother for a favor?"

"It is not you." Katya's next words came out in a rush. "I was wondering if I … if David and I could approach Uncle Henri to see if he could find David a parish and a patron." A stunned silence descended upon the room as Christine looked upon her worried daughter in wonder. The wonder gave way to amusement voiced by a deep laughter. Katya met her mother's laughter with a trembling lip and tears. "I knew this was wrong. David tried to tell me this was a foolish notion."

Christine drew deep breaths, struggling to get her laughter under control. A final hiccup punctuated her efforts and she moved toward her daughter, closing the gap between them physically and figuratively. She took Katya's hands in her own, squeezing them. "It is not you. It is not David. It is not the idea." She took back one of her hands to hold to her daughter's chin. "Think about what you just asked. You asked if your Uncle Henri – your Uncle Henri – knew of a parish patronage." Christine could not help the giggle that escaped at her words. Years of dealing with Raoul's English cousin, Henri, had left her with a wealth of memories. There was Henri the arrogant, hedonistic man she had first encountered. There was the Henri she had not known – the uncertain man frightened of losing his mind to a youth wasted in drink and debauchery. There was the Henri she had grown to love and trust – a man who was brave and kind in spite of his best intentions. Christine also knew Henri's changed manner was not due entirely to his efforts but to the love and calming influence of his sedate American wife, Constance.

The color on Katya's cheeks deepened and the tears in her eyes were burned away by a bright sparkle. She began to giggle and soon mother and daughter were holding their sides as they fought to catch their breath. Katya first put her hand to her mouth as she nodded at the noises coming from the cradle. "Shhh," she tried as the giggles threatened to take control. She saw her mother nod as she placed a hand over her own mouth. Katya turned away to look at Samuel and when she turned back, the giggles were gone. "It was rather silly," she admitted breaking the silence that had descended.

Christine shook her head. "No. It was a good idea. You are just thinking of asking the wrong person. The person you should be asking…"

"Is Aunt Constance," Katya finished. She smiled at her mother's nod of agreement. " I would love to be able to do this for my husband; he never asks for anything for himself." She drew a deep breath and sat a bit straighter. "I shall write her a letter later today. Isabelle and I can post it when we take the children to the park tomorrow." She tilted her head. "And should you not be leaving for Boulogne to check on Anders?" Her lips curved in a half-smile. "Before Papa arrives in Paris to go with you?"

"I wanted to see my daughters and spend some time with my grandchildren first," Christine replied as she got to her feet and walked to look out the window. She drew back the curtain and memories flooded back of another time when she had been at the very same window, keeping secrets from her husband. _One would think I would have learned_, she thought. "I know your father is coming but he must settle Olivier and Sylvie. That gives me three days to enjoy my family before I must leave." She let the drapes fall back into place, turning slightly to look at Katya. "I know your brother is planning something and I must be certain what I suspect before I approach your father. If your brother is doing what I think, it will churn up so many memories…" Her voice trailed off as Christine returned to a burned out opera house and she gave her daughter a sad smile. "It is one thing to born into privilege, my dear; it is quite another to marry into it – especially when your background is less than desirable. You must prove yourself time and time and time again. It is something I have spent a lifetime doing. I fear what your brother might want to do with his life will just bring back all those memories your father and I have tried so hard to leave behind us."

Katya was appalled. "What could Anders possibly be doing? He is aimless, yes; but he is not a criminal or a wastrel." A frown crossed her face. "Perhaps if he were given the same consideration and love that the rest of us are given…" Her words were cut off by her mother's angry retort.

"Do not ever say that your brother is not loved!" Anger heightened the color in Christine's cheeks and fueled an already worried psyche. "He was loved and wanted more than you will ever understand! I pray to God you never lose a child because such a thing destroys a part of your heart and soul that can never be repaired." She drew a deep breath to calm a racing heart. "I will tell you that when I discovered I was with child again after Hakon died, I prayed day and night that the child would be a boy. I knew a new baby could never replace the child I lost but…" Christine fought back her tears. "But another little boy to hold in my arms… it was all I wanted but it only fed the fears your father held." She shook her head sadly. "You know that he was taken from us but you do not know everything. What those animals did destroyed him; your father was never the same. The only thing that gave me glimpses of the loving, innocent boy I married was whenever he was with one of you. You children lit up his heart and lifted his soul. You gave him joy and trust and a renewed faith in the beauty and goodness of mankind. It is a priceless gift!"

"Then why does Papa keep Anders at arm's length? If his birth meant so much…" Katya was confused. "I do not understand."

"I think that your father loves Anders more than he will ever understand or admit but I also know that he is afraid of losing another child. There is a darkness within your father – a darkness he and I encountered before we were married – that feeds on fear and want and desire. It is a darkness born from abuse and neglect, pain and doubt. Your father's need to love Anders feeds the fear of losing him and that feeds the darkness. I fear it will take another tragedy to bring them together, to stop the fears each of them hold. That is why I try to keep each of them happy, to make sure they are doing what they want, to find a common ground for them to meet upon." Christine rubbed her head. "It is a very difficult thing I do, Katya. It is almost as if I am a high-wire circus performer and if I fall, everything will fall."

Katya was silent for long moments as she looked at her mother. It was the first time she had ever heard her mother admit that there was anything wrong in their family. She had known they were not a perfect family despite the image presented to the public. All of the children had known. It was hard to ignore the gaps that began to show as they grew older and began to form their own lives apart from their parents. She had just not known how much the family was held together by her mother's love; it was a revelation that chilled her soul and made her heart fall to her stomach. "I did not know." She slowly rose to her feet, extending her hands to her mother. "I am glad you think I am capable of hearing such things." A crooked smile crossed her lips. "And not just because I am a pastor's wife."

Christine crossed the room and took her daughter's hands. "You truly are what the gypsies would call an 'old soul'. There is a wisdom and compassion within you that will allow you to be the perfect wife for a pastor." She smiled. "It is what makes you a wonderful daughter." She gathered Katya into her arms. "I love you, dear child."

"I love you, Maman," Katya whispered back. "And I pray you much success with Anders."

Success with Anders was also on the mind of Chase as he sat in a darkened room with his elderly grandmother. He was not the man seen in Paris, in the offices of important people, in the elegant rooms of his employer. Gone were the impeccably tailored suits and highly polished shoes, replaced by casual pants and an open-necked shirt, feet bare and resting upon a hard chair. In his hands Chase held a small vial he was turning this way and that, watching the glass sparkle in the light peeking in through heavy draperies. A particularly evil grin turned up one side of his mouth. "Such a lovely thing," he breathed.

"Lovely yes," his grandmother agreed, her voice heavily accented. "But do not admire it for the beauty, admire it for the power."

Chase took his feet down from the chair upon which they rested and sat up straight, his grandmother one of the few people in the world who could command his respect. "Yes, ma'am."

"Mmmm," she growled as she rose to her feet, a gnarled hand holding tightly to a carved walking stick. "Now I want you to repeat to me what you are going to do those people who destroyed your brother." She began to walk around the room, the stick punctuating her movements.

Chase drew a deep breath and began to recite the plan his family had so carefully designed. "I am going to get young Anders addicted to this," he held up the vial. "It only takes a few drops per day. Once he is addicted, I willingly help him to find the opium dens and he disappears into them. At the same time I will make the offer to his parents to do my best to find him." His eyes glittered dangerously. "In order for Anders to be able to afford his opium addiction, I am going to take small pieces of Madam's jewelry and other small valuable pieces – such as silver. That will drive a further wedge between father and son and husband and wife. The final wedge that will break them is when Anders is found dead in the Seine – by my hand. But I will encourage that rumor that it was an apparent suicide." He looked up at his grandmother as she stopped by his side. "Finally I will bring Nico to the Comte's home and secret him away. I will make sure that the Comte is alone with his wife. It will be easy enough to frame him for her murder, a murder I will let Nico commit. Then we shall confront him together – my brother and I – and the truth will all be revealed." Chase snarled. "Let him know the pain we have suffered because of his actions!" The snarl grew into the smile of a satiated predator. "Then I will let Nico have the privilege of finishing what he began. I shall be inconsolable as I relate to the press how the Comte murdered his wife and then committed suicide – all over the ruin and suicide of their son." The smile disappeared and was replaced by a nothingness that was far more disconcerting. "The family will be ruined forever in circles of business and society and once again my brother – and this family – will be respected."

The old woman placed a hand on Chase's shoulder. "Good. Very good." She eyed him with appreciation. "Your brother is a good boy but you – ah! – you are the best of us."

"Thank you, Grandmother." Chase reached up to cover her hand with his own. "I will not let you down."

His grandmother leaned forward and placed a kiss on the top of his head. "I know you shan't."

And the young man on whom all the hopes for success – both good and bad – rested, struggled with his own hopes for success. He stood before a mirror and fiddled with the clothing his image reflected back to him. He straightened a collar, smoothed invisible wrinkles. He ran fingers through the thick dark curls inherited from his mother. He looked at himself and his shoulders drooped. He hung his head and sighed heavily.

_No good,_ Anders thought. _It is not good._

He left his bedroom and walked down the stairs to the first floor of the house in Boulogne.

_I have never been good enough._

He walked through the kitchen and out the back door into the garden, careful to not slip on the stones damp from morning dew.

_What the deuce am I thinking?_

He walked through the gate at the end of the garden and headed for the path that led to the beach.

_I am the fool my family thinks me._

He began to walk down the pathway, doubts beginning to override courage.

_She will not even be there…_

And stopped halfway down as he saw a slim figure off in the distance. His heart leapt in his chest and the breath caught in his throat.

_She is there!_

It was all Anders could do to not run to the side of the girl he did not know but who had haunted his dreams the entire night. He struggled to walk to the end of the path and saunter down the beach, his eyes fixed on everything but his goal – the girl standing at the edge of the sand, watching the water ebb and flow. He took a quick glance at her to ensure he was walking in the right direction and turned his gaze away, toward the Channel and a small fishing boat chugging its way past. Anders timed it just right and stopped before he ran into the girl before him.

"Pardon me," he began.

She turned toward him, her golden eyes as bright as the sun. "You came back," she said, her gaze going to her toes, a smile turning up her lips.

"You knew I would be here, Mademoiselle Herrin?" Anders wondered, hope being born in his soul.

Orla raised her eyes, a gentle smile on her face. "I prayed very hard you would be, Monsieur de Chagny."

"Anders," he corrected her as he held out his hand and felt his heart burst as she took it.

"Only if you call me Orla." She could not think clearly; she could only feel a tingling that spread from the hand he held all over her body, taking her breath away. She smiled again. "Anders."

"Orla," he breathed, returning her smile.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Summary:** Anders de Chagny and Orla Herrin - two lost souls - have met on a beach. They continue to meet on that beach unaware their actions will change not only their lives but the lives of all they love … forever…

CHAPTER SEVEN

Anders did not know how long he stood there, holding Orla's hand, staring into her eyes. If pressed, he would have sworn it was an eternity wrapped in a moment. He wanted to ask what she was doing to him – this strange, enchanting girl he had only met briefly the day before. He wanted to know what it was about her gold-flecked eyes that drew him in. He just wanted to stay there beside her forever but the color rose in her cheeks and she dropped her eyes beneath his wondering gaze.

"I am sorry." He took back his hand. "That was rude of me."

"Thank you," Orla whispered, gathering her own thoughts. She, too, wondered at the feelings stirring within. She was at a loss to explain why those incredibly dark eyes haunted her sleep. She wondered why her skin tingled at his touch. She wondered why she had been hoping and praying the man on the beach would return. She wondered why a complete stranger could touch her soul in just a few moments of polite conversation.

"Would you like to walk?" Anders asked, his heart still as he waited for her answer.

"Yes, please." Orla whispered again, wondering when she had forgotten to talk in a normal voice.

"Perhaps we should walk in the direction from whence you came," he suggested. "I would not wish to cause anyone who may be watching out for you to become anxious…"

Orla's head shot up at his words. "I can take care of myself," she informed him, glad to have her normal speaking voice back.

Anders nodded his head in deference. "I do believe you can, mademoiselle. I meant no offense."

"None taken."

He held his arm out, grateful and ecstatic when she took it. "I only meant I would not wish to take you far from where you are staying." He looked at her from the corner of his eye as they began to walk. "May I ask where you are staying?"

Orla felt like skipping and would have if she would not have to remove her arm to do so. "I am staying with my mother at Madam Jacinais'."

"I know it well. It is a lovely home, if a bit on the threadbare side of gentility." He hoped to impress her with his knowledge. "My parents introduced me to Madame when I was younger. She married a captain of the shipping fleets. When he was lost at sea, she struggled to keep their home and eventually opened it to only those people who were recommended to her."

"A friend of my parents' recommended my mother to stay there."

"Are you not English?"

Orla turned to give her companion a brief smile and turned back as the heat rose in her cheeks. "My parents are French; they moved to England before I was born. My mother comes to France on occasion to do my father's business. This is my first time coming with her."

"That explains why you understood me yesterday when I handed you your scarf." A smile crossed Anders' face. "And what does your father do?"

"He is a composer," Orla said as she turned to look out at the Channel. "This country does not hold fond memories for him so Mama comes when a new piece of music needs to be delivered."

Anders watched her head turn, heard a change in tone as she talked of her father. He could feel her fingers tighten on his arm and mentally berated himself; it was too forward to ask after her family. He was a fool. Perhaps it was best to just let this waking dream go. He sniffed back hopes and nodded toward a path in the distance. "I believe that is the path up to Madame Jacinais'." He found himself stopped as the girl on his arm turned back to him.

"Our walk is done?" Orla asked, sounding like a lost little girl.

"Yes, but I shall watch from here to assure myself that you get there safely."

Orla could feel her heart sinking as something began to slip away. "If you want." _Wrong. This is wrong, _her soul screamed. Too many times during childhood she had had to fight her older brothers as they took her toys. She was not going to let anyone take anything from her again and she found an inner resolve. "If I come to the beach in the morning, will you be here?"

Hope was rekindled. "If you would like," Anders replied.

"I would like," Orla assured him as she gave a quick squeeze to the arm she still held. "I would like that very much, indeed." She was not disappointed as she walked down the beach the next morning to find Anders at the edge of the water, jumping back each time a wave rolled in. Her laughter caught his attention. "My brothers and I played the same game when we were children."

Anders could only stare at the girl who moved through his dreams at night.

"Watch out!"

"Oh no!" Anders jumped back as the waves caught him. He laughed as he shook water from each foot. "I have not done that since I was a little boy." He held out a hand. "Good morning, Orla."

She took the hand, giggling at his misfortune. "Good morning, Anders." His touch brought the color to her cheeks. "You promised me a walk," she reminded him, desperate to hold on to his hand.

"So I did." Anders slipped her hand through his arm. "And I was taught a gentleman always keeps his word to a lady. Would you like to walk in the opposite direction today?" Her shy smile was all the encouragement he needed.

They walked in silence for several moments, each trying to understand the feelings the other brought forth. It was Orla, beginning to feel overwhelmed, who broke the silence. "Do you live here?" she wondered.

"I do," he replied. "My mother lived here briefly before my eldest sister was born. She loved it so much my father purchased the house for her."

"Your parents are here now?"

Anders shook his head. "No. I am here alone." He turned to wink at her. "I am taking a term off from university. My father says I am aimless."

Orla knew his words should have raised caution in her breast but his naughty wink only warmed her heart. "You do not seem to be aimless." She did not know how her words made his blood race. "Where is your family now?"

"My oldest sister is in Paris with her husband and children. My older brother and his wife are in the south of France with my parents at our family home. And I would hope my other sister is at home with her husband and child - unless she has managed to sneak away to Paris for a visit." He stopped and directed Orla's attention to a path that led upward from the beach. "Would you like to see my home?"

Orla could not ignore the warnings this time. "I am not sure that would be wise."

Anders felt like a fool but he wanted her to see his lovely home. "Only to the top of the path," he promised, "and then I shall bring you down and return you safely to your own path."

"All right, then," Orla agreed, throwing caution to the wind, "to the top of the path." She matched her step to his, finding a sense of peace walking beside him. "We have a beach by my home but it is very rocky – not at all like this beach."

They began to walk up the path.

"I imagine it must be very dramatic," Anders said and stopped at the top of the path. "Nothing at all like this." He smiled as Orla drew in her breath. "That is my house." He pointed to a white washed house with a gate leading into a greening garden. His voice grew soft. "My uncle and aunt would spend a month with us each summer. The house was always crowded." His voice dropped even further. "But happy."

Orla squeezed his arm. "It looks happy." She smiled as Anders turned to her. "You are lucky to live in such a lovely place."

He nodded. "It is the one place that truly feels like home. Our Paris home is very formal and my family's chateau is very big and cold." His gaze grew distant. "This is the one place where we could just be family." His voice dropped a notch. "Now it is a my sanctuary."

"Pardon?" Orla was confused.

Anders turned back to her. "Forgive me. I should not have said those things." He shrugged, a crooked grin turning up his lips. "My aimless brain allowed my tongue run away from me."

"I would like to hear more." Orla's eyes sparkled like the sun overhead. "But I shall tell you about my family first." She tilted her head to the side. "Tomorrow?"

Tomorrow did not come soon enough for Anders. His sleep was interrupted by thoughts of a girl who was surely stealing his heart. Shortly before sunrise, he abandoned his attempt to sleep. He stood before the window and watched the new day dawn. The chiming of a clock drew him from his waking dreams. He dressed quickly and headed to the beach, hoping the girl of his dreams would be there waiting for him. She was and with the sun sparkling off hair the color of warm honey, she took his breath away.

"Good morning," Orla said as she came to meet him.

"Good morning." In spite of the spell in which she was wrapping him, there was something Anders needed to know to ease a troubled soul. "If I may?" She nodded. "You have no idea how happy I am to find you here this morning but I would not wish to keep you from your mother."

"My mother sent a message yesterday. She must stay another day or so in the city." Orla bounced on her toes. "So there is nothing from which you are keeping me."

Anders clasped his hands behind his back so he would not grab her and hold her to him "I know a place where we can sit and talk, if you would like." She nodded and he walked down the beach, Orla falling into step beside him. "There is a piece of driftwood not far from here…"

Orla nodded. "I have seen it; that would be nice."

They walked in comfortable silence until they neared the driftwood nestled against the base of the cliffs. Anders took off his jacket and placed it down, smiling as Orla sat upon it. He joined her and they watched as a large ship made its way up the Channel. "My mother said she and a friend would sit in this same place and talk for hours."

"I think my parents did much the same on our beach," Orla began. "We live in Cornwall." She knew she should not say where. "My parents have a cottage close to the shore - much like your home. We had many walks along the beach and the occasional luncheon, even bonfires with our cousins." Her eyes twinkled. "There are many caves where smugglers would hide their booty. My brothers and I loved to explore and play in them."

Anders smiled back. "It sounds like much fun!" His smile softened. "You have brothers?"

"Two," Orla admitted and heaved a great sigh. "They are both older than me and take great pleasure in making my life miserable." She shook her head at the looked that crossed Anders' face. "I do not mean that. I know they love me and are just watching out for me but … oh … sometimes their love can be so stifling!"

Softly spoken words slipped from Anders' lips. "You are very lucky to be loved so well."

"I am," Orla agreed and turned her gaze back to the water. "My father he… um…" She knew she should not tell but felt like she could say anything to the young man beside her. "My father was born with a disfigurement that covers half of his head. I think it is one of the reasons why he does not often venture from our home; people can be very cruel." She was grateful Anders sat still and silent. "My brothers were born with same disfigurement but not as extensive. My parents – mostly my mother, I think – made sure they never saw themselves as anything but normal." Her tone lightened. "Gabriel – my eldest brother – studied music and now plays with the orchestra at the Royal Opera House. It is such an accomplishment for him!" She looked sideways at Anders. "He does have an ego, though; and I am afraid it might go to his head!"

Anders nodded in agreement. "And what of your other brother?"

Orla's whole demeanor changed. "Michael is the peacemaker in our family. He is good-natured and mild of temperament. He studies architecture in Scotland and we no longer get to see him – or Gabriel – as much as we would like." She turned once again to Anders. "My brothers named me. Is that not sweet?"

"Very."

"When I was born, I was the perfect child my father always wanted. I did not inherit his disfigurement. When my brothers first saw me, they said I looked like a little golden princess. That is what my name means in Gaelic – golden princess."

"It is a perfect name." Anders found himself drowning in her eyes. "You are a golden princess."

Orla felt herself floating away. "I am?" She was grateful when Anders took her hands, keeping her grounded.

"You are," he assured. "You are."

"Tomorrow?" she wondered.

Anders nodded and found himself seated beside Orla the next day. She took his hand, intertwining their fingers, sending Anders' heart racing.

"What of you?" Orla asked. "What of your family?" Her bright color faded at the look that passed over Anders' face. She tried to take her hand back and found it covered by his other hand.

"Please, do not," he begged, his eyes focused on their hands. "The English have a saying – an heir and a spare. I am the spare-spare. I had an older brother who died in infancy."

"I am so sorry," Orla breathed.

Anders nodded and swallowed back the grief and disappointment he had felt his whole life. "My family is very old and very wealthy. It is important to have sons to carry on the family name. My uncle did not marry until late in life so it was my father's responsibility to insure our name would continue." He shook his head. "I am not saying that my brother and sisters and I are not loved – we are. My father was taken by force from our family before my eldest sister was born; there was almost not a family."

"How terrible!"

"It was from what little my parents have told us. So when my father came back and my parents resumed their lives, they really did – they do – love us. But sometimes I feel like I am an afterthought. It is almost as if my brother had not died, I would not have been." His looked darkened. "Now that my older brother is married, I feel less like I am needed than ever before." Anders dared a glance at Orla's face and the compassion he saw there took his breath away.

"Surely that is not true!"

"Perhaps not," Anders shrugged. "All I know is I am a disappointment to my parents. I am not a daughter they could marry off to a politician or a minister like my sisters, Isabelle and Katya. And I am not smart like my brother, Olivier, or useful because he and his wife will inherit and are responsible for all that has come before us and all that will come after us. All I want… All I want…" He shook his head and turned away only to feel Orla's soft hand beneath his chin, turning him back to her.

"What is that you want?" She got no answer. "Please tell me! I think I understand what you are feeling for I, too, wanted something."

"What did you want?"

"My freedom," came the simple reply. "I wanted to stop being treated like a princess who needed to be hidden away in an ivory tower. I wanted to stop being protected. I wanted to know what it was like to be a young woman with a whole life before her and not an ornament that could break." Orla sniffled back tears she refused to shed. "It is so hard to be perfect."

"I do not know what it is to be perfect. I wonder sometimes if I would be happier if I were perfect."

"You would not. I know."

"Perhaps not." Anders smiled sadly. "You asked what I wanted. I want to follow in my mother's footsteps. She was in the theatre before she married my father. That was how they met again after losing each other – they had been childhood friends, you understand. I want to manage a theatre. I want to learn all about how to build sets and promote shows and pick music. I want to learn it all and maybe someday even own my own theatre."

"But…" Orla encouraged him.

"Something happened years ago shortly before my parents married. I do know that it involved the fire that burned the opera house. Beyond that," Anders shrugged, "my parents will not say and we have learned not to ask. All I know is my father will never allow my interest in the theatre to be anything more than a dream. A foolish dream at that."

"Not all dreams need to be foolish," Orla told him. "Am I foolish?"

Anders felt the breath catch in his throat at her words. "You… you…" He held a hand to his heart. "You feel this, too?"

Orla nodded. "From the moment you called out and handed my scarf back." She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. "I have felt like I was living in a dream these last days." Her eyes opened, moist and full of longing. "I do not want to awake from this dream." She took Anders hand from his heart and squeezed it. "I wanted to know what was beyond the end of the drive to our home. I wanted to know what freedom would bring to me. Now I know and I want to hold onto it forever!" She sighed. "For so long I felt like I was a princess in a fairy story and now I am glad I am."

"Why?"

"Because now I know that there is truly such a thing as love at first sight." Orla's cheeks turned a soft pink. "I love you, Anders de Chagny and I know…" Her words were cut-off by the touch of Anders' lips upon her own. They were soft and warm and her first kiss left her speechless.

Anders drew back and stared at the girl before him, amazed that she shared his dreams, his feelings. Incredulous that she understood him so well after only a few short days. He wanted to cry, he wanted to dance, he wanted to shout to the heavens! But such things would have meant releasing Orla's hands and Anders never wanted to let her go. "I love you," he told her, a hand reaching out to palm her cheek. "You enchanted me from the very first moment and I knew I loved you when I found you on the beach the next day. You were real! You were not a dream!"

Orla found her voice again. "I am real. You are real." She nodded, loving the feel of his hand against her face. "We are real."

"We are," Anders breathed.

Orla nodded.

"Can I kiss you again?" Anders asked and laughed slightly. "I should have asked for the first…" This time it was his words stopped by Orla's lips on his, her hands on his face. She was gentle and sweet and smelled of sunshine. He could not think as she finally broke the kiss, keeping his face in her hands.

"I love you," she whispered.

Anders could only nod as he mouthed back her words and sought her lips again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Summary:** Anders and Orla develop a plan to remain together. CHase reassures Raoul that everything is well with Anders even as Chase's thoughts dwell on revenge. And in two houses separated by a mile of road, Christine and Tallis find their pasts catching them up.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The morning dawned bright and clear, not a cloud in the sky. Slight breezes blew in from the west, nudging incoming waves harder along the shoreline. A boat made its way up the Channel trailing noisy seabirds in its wake. And on a piece of driftwood nestled against the base of the cliff, two young people sat hand-in-hand contemplating the future.

"Now what happens?" Orla asked her voice quiet and tentative.

Anders shook his head. "I wish I knew." He was silent for a moment before turning to his companion. "All I know is I do not want this to ever end. For what seems like the very first time in my life, I feel as if I know who I am and what it is I was meant to do." He raised Orla's hand to his lips. "I feel as if I finally belong."

"You do belong," Orla nodded, "and so do I. I am no longer the perfect, protected princess." She smiled. "You see me for who I am. You see me as a real person." She sighed and put her head upon his shoulder. "What are we going to do?"

"I did not sleep well last night because I could not stop thinking of how we could stay together." Anders leaned against her head. "And it came to me in the middle of the night. My father wants me to return to school and I think I am going to give him what he wants." Orla turned slightly to look up at him. "Only I think I am going to ask if I can go to school in England."

Orla brightened. "Really?"

"I have family in Lincolnshire…" Anders kissed away the look crossing Orla's face. "I know it is far from Cornwall but it is not that far from London. I will ask if I can go spend some time with my family and look at schools in England. My father may agree as he is close to my Uncle Henri and I am close to my cousin Julianna." He smiled. "You would like Julianna – she is all blonde hair and blue eyes and a veritable whirlwind. She enters a room and you cannot help but notice her."

"She sounds like great fun."

"She is," Anders agreed. "If I go to school in England, I would be able to see you during school breaks. Perhaps we could even arrange to meet in London. You can go visit your brother and I could come to see you. I know your father is not going to be happy with me; but if I show I am not just some spoiled rich boy out to ruin his daughter, perhaps he will give me the time to court you properly."

Orla felt her breath catch. "You would court me?"

His words were not ones he would have spoken to the females found in salons and drawing rooms but this girl was unlike them and she needed to know. "You are a lady in every sense of the word," Anders began and sat up straight, bringing Orla with him, turning her to face him. "I have known women born to that name. I have known women not born into such high privilege but who titled themselves as such. You are nothing like any of them." He smiled. "You are gentle and beautiful with a kind spirit – everything a proper lady of any position should be. You deserve nothing less than the very best I can offer you."

"Anders…" Orla breathed, her head shaking. "I wish I was everything good you see in me."

"And I wish the same thing of you." Anders shrugged. "I do not know if this is just a silly game we are playing or if it is as real as it feels. I do know I want us to be given the chance to find out. Should it mean I court you to prove myself to your father, then so be it."

A shy smile turned up the corners of Orla's lips. "Let me give you the chance to prove yourself to my mother first."

Even as two lost souls plotted to find a way to keep their dreams alive, back in Paris the man plotting the death of young hopes knocked upon a closed door.

"Come," a voice called out.

Chase placed a mask of serenity upon his face before turning the handle and entering the room, closing the door behind him. He turned to the room, wood gleaming warmly in the morning light and from the corner of his eye caught a glimpse of the portrait hanging over the fireplace. _No wonder men fought over you. No wonder my brother wants to finish what he started._ He kept his mask on as his mind raced. _And I shall make sure it happens._ He allowed a smile to cross his face as he acknowledged the man in the leather chair. "Good morning, sir."

Raoul placed the book he had been reading in his lap and smiled at his secretary. A familiar gratitude welled up inside his heart – he had been so fortunate to find Chase after Pierre Martin retired. He had inherited Pierre from his brother, Philippe, and the older man carefully guided Raoul through his responsibilities. Then he had gently done the same for the new Vicomtess. Raoul never thought to find anyone as capable or as trustworthy as Pierre had been. Then an acquaintance mentioned a young clerk in his law firm who seemed to be destined for greater things and Raoul had taken the opportunity placed before him never once looking back. "Good morning, Chase." Raoul motioned the young man to the opposite chair.

Taking his seat, Chase remained ramrod straight, his demeanor businesslike as he carefully placed the folio he carried in his lap. Once settled, he smiled at the man before him. "I hope you had a restful night after your long trip." It was always wise to keep your prey at ease and unaware.

"I did, thank you." A single finger reached up to rub at Raoul's temple. "Except I did stay up a bit too long talking with Katya." A smile lit his eyes. "It was nice, though, to just sit and have time to quietly catch up with all that she and her husband have been doing. And it was very nice to spend a few hours with my grandson before he had to go to bed for the night."

"Good," Chase nodded.

"And what of your family? Did you have a pleasant visit with them?"

Chase lowered his eyes; he knew his part well. "My visit with my family was enjoyable as always. Thank you for the time away from my duties."

Raoul sighed. "I wish we knew more about them. You are a part of our family! I think in some ways you know us better than we know ourselves. My wife and I would just like to get to know where you came from and help if that should be needed."

"I thank you for your concern." Chase raised his eyes again. "My family thanks you, as well; but I try very hard to keep my personal and professional lives separate. It is only proper." He could not let Raoul see the way his blood raced at the thought of what Nico had endured behind the locked doors of the asylum. "And my older brother has been ill for some years." He shook his head as Raoul opened his mouth. "No. He is getting well and should be fully recovered shortly. He is surrounded by an extended family who care for him and we are a private people. I hope you understand."

Raoul nodded as he thought back to the care his own family had given him. "I am glad you have such caring people around your brother."

"Thank you." Chase opened the folio resting upon his lap. "Now, regarding this correspondence that requires your attention…" He was stopped by Raoul's words.

"One last thing before we start…" Chase waited patiently. "Did the Comtess get off safely?"

"I took her to the station myself and waited until the train had left." A lying smile turned up the corners of his mouth. "She knew you would follow her back to Paris but hoped you would not follow her to Boulogne."

Raoul look at his hands. "She would," he said softly before returning his attention to Chase. "I shall not; I think my presence might exasperate the situation." His brow knitted in question. "You know my son – is everything well with him? He is not in any difficulty, is he?"

_You do care!_ The triumphant thought crossed Chase's mind. _That will make our revenge that much sweeter._ Aloud, "There is no trouble, sir, that I can confidently say. I will say that your son does have a plan for his life and only hopes that you will support his efforts."

His words piqued Raoul's interest. "Plan? What plan?"

"I think that is something best left for the Comtess to tell you."

And at the moment the Comtess was in the kitchen of the house in Boulogne waiting patiently for the kettle on the stove to whistle at her. She had arrived an hour earlier only to find the remains of a hasty breakfast on the kitchen table and her son not at home. Christine did not worry over Anders and thought he was probably down at the beach – he had always loved watching the boats as a small child. Perhaps he was planning a career at sea. That would make his father happy, she thought as she had climbed the stairs to change out of her traveling clothes. She had abandoned the finery required of her position in Paris for a simple skirt and blouse. Here, in the house by the Channel, she had never been the Comtess de Chagny. She had always been just Christine. This was the place where she and Raoul had just been another family. This house to which she had once run from painful memories had become a sanctuary where new memories – happy memories of laughing children – had been created. Now she waited for the water to heat and her son to return.

"Ah," Christine sighed in satisfaction as the kettle whistled. She grabbed her skirt in hand and lifted the kettle, pouring the hot water over the tea strainer in a ceramic pot. Placing the kettle back on the stove, she was placing the lid on the teapot when the door opened behind her.

"Maman!" a surprised voice sounded.

She turned around and could not help the smile growing from the fears fleeing her heart. Anders was bright-eyed and smiling, looking happier than he had been for a long time. "My dear boy!" She held out her hands and embraced her youngest child as he took them. Anders was not quite as tall as his father or older brother but he had grown so much from the tiny babe she had hugged tightly to her chest. Christine finally drew back and reached up to kiss his cheek before letting Anders go. "You look wonderful!"

Anders laughed. "Did you expect to find me moping about, drowning my sorrows in drink." A look of mock horror crossed his face. "Or something worse?"

Christine returned his laugh as she shook her head. "I know you better than that, dear child."

"What are you doing here, Maman." Anders pulled out a kitchen chair and thought for a moment. "Not that I am not pleased to see you!" He sat down as his mother nodded at him.

Christine leaned against the counter and clasped her hands at her waist. "I came here to assure myself that you were – indeed – doing well. Did you not think your father would share your letter with me?" She fought down the laugh at the sheepish look that crossed Anders' face. "Honestly, Anders! Sometimes you are far too much like me for your own good." She grew a bit stern. "I know that you are up to something."

"I was," Anders interrupted his mother. "But my plans have changed." He drew a deep breath. "I want to go back to school." His heart dropped a bit at the surprised but pleased look that crossed his mother's face. "But I want to go to school in England."

"What is it with England?" Christine threw up her hands. "First Katya tells me that David wishes to return to England and wants to approach your Aunt Constance about finding them a parish patronage and now you…"

"I want to go spend time with Uncle Henri and look at schools," Anders said quickly.

Shaking her head at the strange turn of events in the lives of her children, Christine could do little more than just stare at her son. And it was as she studied her child, the child who looked so much like her, that she saw a familiar light in his eyes. It was the light of the stars that had been in her own eyes on a long ago night atop the Paris Opera House while wrapped in the arms of the man who would be her husband – her son was in love! Christine swallowed down the lump that suddenly appeared in her throat. This was unexpected! She had thought to find Anders in Boulogne plotting a way to work in the theatre – a thought she knew would disappoint his father to no end. But this? This was completely unexpected! She did not know how to deal with this. She needed a bit more time to sort through the thoughts racing across her mind. "Why England?" she asked hoping her voice sounded normal.

Anders truly loved his mother. She had been nothing like the other mothers in his circle of friends; she had always been there for him – for all of them. She had read them stories and put them to bed. She had comforted their hurts and sat with them when they were sick. And it had been his mother who bridged the awkward moments between him and his father. He found he could not lie to her now. "Would you believe I met a girl on the beach last week?" He grinned and shrugged. "I was walking along the beach and there she was and she dropped her scarf and I picked it up for her."

Christine's words came back to haunt her - _Oh, I do not know that chasing girls along the beach is quite so awful. Look what happened to you when you chased me along the beach._ "And what is this girl like?"

"She is…" Anders found himself at a loss for words. "She is visiting France with her mother who is conducting business for her husband. From what I understand her father is a composer and prefers to stay at home and work on his music."

A composer. That was good. "Is this someone your father and I might have heard?"

"I do not think so." Anders watched his mother turn her back as she began to set crockery on a tray, preparing to serve tea. "Orla – her name is Orla – she says her father left France years ago and does not prefer to come back." He sighed. "She is so beautiful! She has golden brown hair and eyes that look gold in the right light – her name means golden princess. She said she is her father's perfect symphony. I guess there is some type of disfigurement in the family that her brothers inherited but she did not."

Christine was thankful her back was to her son so he could not watch the color drain from her face. She quietly cleared her throat before speaking again. "Does this girl have a last name?"

"Herrin," Anders replied. "Her name is Orla Herrin."

Christine felt her world fall out from under her.

Even as the words that passed Anders' lips unknowingly caused his mother's heart to fall to her feet, a mile down the road the girl he was falling in love with was in the arms of her own mother.

"It is so nice to see you again," Tallis said as she hugged her daughter close.

"I am glad to see you again, too," Orla replied and smiled as her mother let her go.

"Why do I doubt that?"

Orla shrugged and bounced on her toes. "I do not know."

Tallis laughed and pinched her daughter's chin. "You are a delightful child but a poor liar, my dear. Now, amuse me with tales of what you have done this past week while I unpack my trunk."

"Did everything go well for Papa?"

"Yes." A satisfied smile passed over Tallis' face. "The managers at the theatre were very pleased with the pieces your father sent and they have request more for next year's season – at a larger sum. Your father is going to be so happy!"

"I am very happy."

Tallis nodded in agreement. "I can see that. You must have a had a most enjoyable week without me."

Orla grew somber. "It was not all that much fun without you, Mama."

"Just tell me."

"I did everything I promised I would. I behaved myself, just as you wanted. I went to the fishing village with Madame Jacinais and we brought fish." Orla looked very pleased with herself. "And I taught her how to make a proper fish and chips." She joined in her mother's laughter. "Then I spent some time in the garden reading and I spent a good deal of time on the beach watching the boats and the people. There were not too many people there." She bit her fingertip. "I guess it is because it is still a bit too cold for people to be on the beach."

"Were you not chilled yourself?" Tallis was bent over her trunk and could not see the sheepish look on her daughter's face.

"I was but…" Now was as good a time as any to break the news to her mother. If she could get Anders past her mother, get her on their side, surely her father could offer no objections. "Well, there was this day and I just wanted to feel everything! I wanted to feel the wind in my hair and the water on my fingers. I took my scarf off and dropped in the sand." Orla drew a deep breath, her words rushing out. "And a young man picked up my scarf and gave it back to me and I made a new friend."

Tallis straightened and turned around. "What?" She looked at Orla, taking note of the heightened color in her cheeks, the glow in her eyes. "Oh dear Lord," Tallis sighed. "Orla what have you done?"

Orla stamped a small foot, her temper getting the better of her. "I did nothing wrong! He picked up my scarf and gave it back and we started to talk and…" Her anger faded beneath the memories of Anders and days spent beneath the early spring sun. "And he is very nice and has been nothing but a gentleman toward me." She could not help but smile. "You would like him, Mama; you would!" She giggled. "He is very handsome and reminds me a bit of Gabriel and Michael – Anders has the same curly dark hair but his eyes are very dark."

"And does this Anders have a last name?" Tallis wondered.

Orla sighed inwardly – maybe there was a chance after all! "His name is Anders de Chagny." She did not understand why all the color suddenly faded from her mother's face and did not have a chance to ask as a soft knock came at their door.

Tallis did not know how she found her feet or how she walked across the room to answer the door. Madame Jacinais stood there, a small envelope in her hand. "Yes?" Tallis heard someone who sounded like her ask from a million miles away.

Madame Jacinais handed her the card. "This came for you. The lad said it was very important."

"Thank you," Tallis replied as she took the card, closing the door and looking down at what she held in her hands. Memories from another time and place threatened to overwhelm her as she looked at the embossed stationary, remembering another time she had held the same stationary.

"What is it Mama?" Orla wondered. "What is wrong?"

Tallis shook her head, trembling fingers opening the envelope, slipping the card out. She looked at the message and knew Erik's fears had come to life…

"_We must talk. Christine."_

**Author's PS:** Thank you for your patience. August was a very difficult month full of 80 hour work weeks. I think I had three days off the whole month – one of which was for Tropical Storm Fay. Now that the semester has begun and my life is once again my own, expect regular updates … whoo hoo hoo!


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Summary:** Two mothers meet to decide the fate of their children. Parting with the knowledge they would have been friends in another lifetime, they inform the children of their decision.

CHAPTER NINE

The past stood in the open doorway, fingers nervously clenching and unclenching, feeling the weight of dark shadows closing in. The present stood in the room, hands holding tightly to the back of a chair, knuckles white, trying to hold the coming storm at bay. And all the while the future looked on from a great distance, hope flickering like a candle in the darkest night.

"Comtess," Tallis addressed the woman in the doorway, her head nodding slightly.

Christine swallowed back her fear. "Madame."

"Would you like to come in?"

"Yes, please." Christine entered the room, reaching behind to close the door.

It took all the strength she possessed for Tallis to remove a single hand from where it gripped the chair to wave at the tray on the small dining table. "I took the liberty of asking Madame Jacanais to make us tea. I hope you do not mind."

"No, that is very nice. Thank you."

The awkward silence that had been descending upon the room fully blanketed it in old hurts, deep fears and painful regrets. Christine looked at her toes, unable to look at the woman before her, the woman who had had the courage to face what she could not – Erik's passion. Tallis, also, turned her eyes away, unable to bear the sight of the woman who had always shared her marriage – even from a great distance. They stood in the softly lit dining room at Madame Jacanais' boarding house, neither able to express the anxiety living in their hearts. It was Tallis – gathering what little self-confidence she had about herself – who broke the silence.

"Would you like to have a seat?" she wondered.

Christine nodded, still unable to trust her voice and took a seat at the table. She was slipping off her gloves as Tallis took the seat beside her. She finally raised her head as Tallis cleared her throat.

"Your family is well?"

"Yes. My oldest son and his new bride are in the country. My daughters are in Paris with their children and my husband."

"Grandchildren," Tallis breathed. "How fortunate you are."

Thoughts of smiling little faces lightened Christine's heart. "Three of them – two boys and a girl. They are a great joy to Raoul and me."

Tallis shook her head. "We are not that fortunate. My sons are still studying." She could not yet bring herself to speak of Orla.

The weight of long years spent in silent repentance for her sins forced the next words from Christine's lips. "How is he?"

Tallis did not need to ask about whom Christine inquired. She knew. She knew all too well. "Erik is well and happy. He finds peace in our home, walking the dogs along the moor, listening to the music of the ocean. He delights in watching our children grow and learn." Pride straightened her posture. "He has a home and a family and everything a normal man could desire for the first time in his life."

Christine heaved a sigh of relief; perhaps her sins had been forgiven, after all. "I am so glad to hear it. I have worried about him, you know." It was long past time to speak the truth. "You did something I could never do – you loved him. You gave him everything I could not."

"Do not make me a martyr," Tallis interrupted her. "Yes, I love him but he is not an easy man to love. There have been many times when I questioned my choice – my heart - but they were only moments. I love him and no doubts or fears or anger could ever change that." She shook her head. "When he finds out what Orla has done, it will kill him." Tallis had finally broken the chains that bound the two women to their pasts.

"I fear the same thing for my husband." The fears Christine kept locked in her heart came pouring out. "Anders is our youngest child and I have spent his lifetime keeping the peace between him and Raoul. There was another son, a little boy we named Hakkon who died when he was but three months old."

That was something Tallis had not known and her hand reached out to cover one of Christine's. "I am so sorry."

A nod of thanks gave Christine a moment to swallow down the lump in her throat. "It was – it still is – very hard. And after all Raoul had been through, the loss of our son was a pain he could almost not bear." A heart unburdened itself to the one woman who could possibly understand. "This will sound strange but in some ways, Raoul became like Erik. He grew moody, quiet, prone to outbursts of anger; the man I married was gone but – like you – I love him. I think in some ways Raoul's mood changes gave me a chance to understand the Erik I knew." She let out a long breath before continuing. "When Anders was born, Raoul was so afraid of losing him, as well, it became hard for him to admit he loved our son. I know he loves him and I know Anders loves his father but they have such a hard time admitting it to each other. I fear when he finds out what has happened it will forever drive them apart. That is a thing I could not bear."

Tallis was not prepared for the words rushing out of Christine's mouth. She had always pictured the woman who still held a place in her husband's heart as having a privileged life, a perfect life. She had spent the early years of her marriage comparing herself to Erik's "angel" and more often than not found herself lacking. She knew she was not beautiful or talented. She knew her education was lacking in certain aspects. Yet as her children had been born, Tallis realized she had something her rival could never have – she had Erik's honest love and his complete trust. Now she was facing the greatest betrayal of that trust. It was a betrayal that could destroy the love she had come to need as much as her next breath.

"I am so very sorry you lost your son. I cannot even begin to imagine the pain you must still feel. I have seen a similar fear in Erik's eyes," she began and had Christine's complete attention. "The birth of our first child was not easy for me and our second child was even more difficult. When I discovered I was expecting Orla, I was told neither of us might survive the birth. I believe you can understand what such news would do to Erik." Tallis watched Christine's eyes close in pain before they opened and she saw her answer there. "Erik always pictured you as having the perfect life with perfect children and that was the one thing he wanted for me – a perfect child. Both of our sons have some of his deformity and he always blamed himself for such. So he bargained with God to give me a perfect child and his perfect child nearly did cost me my life. Orla was six months old before I was completely healed. So you see, Erik looks upon his only daughter as proof he is normal man. She is the perfection he wanted to create all his life."

Christine saw heat begin to color Tallis' cheeks and knew there was more. The same heat colored her cheeks, the cheeks of her children, when they were willingly avoiding the truth.

"There is more," Tallis continued. "I have been coming to France for years. Sometimes to see my family, sometimes to see Madame Giry and other times to deliver the music Erik writes for that is how he provides for our family. This time Orla wished to come and he was anxious because he knew you owned a house here. I promised him – I promised! – his precious daughter would not be touched by his past. Now she has and the worst thing is he knew I was lying. He had a look in his eyes and I think he knew something would happen." Tallis looked like she wanted to cry. "All his life, he has done nothing but protect Orla, shield her from what he knew the world was capable of doing. This is going to kill him!"

Once again silence descended upon the room as mothers contemplated the actions of their children and wives worried over the reactions of their husbands. Each woman sat there, staring at the table, the walls, their fingernails, anywhere but at each other and the fear they knew would see in the other's eyes – their own fear. This time it was Christine who drew the tattered shreds of self-confidence about her and broke the silence.

"Now what do we do?" she wondered as her eyes caught Tallis'.

"I wish I knew," Tallis sighed. "I wish I knew a way to keep that bright smile on my daughter's face and keep her father as happy." Her next words were a painful admission. "Our children know nothing about Erik's past. It was something we hoped they need never know. We told them he led an interesting life in France and wished to put it behind him. I know the man I married. I know he is," she shook her head, "was a scoundrel and a murderer. He is a different man now! He has struggled so hard to put his past behind him! Our children do not need to know these things!"

A bitter laugh slipped Christine's lips causing a strange look to pass over Tallis' face. "Do not take offense," Christine begged her. "Your words hold truth for my children, as well. They know Raoul was abducted shortly before Isabelle was born but they do not know everything that happened. Those actions still haunt Raoul and me and need not haunt our children. Nor do they know all the things that happened in the opera house. They know Raoul and I were there the night it burned but beyond that they know nothing. I will tell you I am surprised they never heard the stories from anyone else." Christine placed her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands. "Why can the past not remain in the past? Why can our ghosts not rest in peace?"

Tallis wished she had an answer for the woman whose pained expression mirrored her own. "I do not know of ghosts and the past but I do know of Phantoms." She tilted her head at the look on Christine's face. "I live with Erik and The Phantom. When he is troubled or angry, Erik once again becomes The Phantom. He retreats to the northern most room of our cottage where it is dark and chill and there he remains in the silence. Long ago I learned that when he is like that, I cannot reach him. I must wait until he becomes Erik again and then I have my happy home and family again."

"Now it is my turn to say 'I am sorry'. I would not wish The Phantom on anyone – much less the woman he loves." Christine nodded and smiled slightly. "Yes. I do know he loves you. I knew such a thing years ago when I first moved here and he would come seeking forgiveness. We both agreed we were loved by those far better than we and we found our forgiveness." She shook her head. "On this very beach! Tallis – may I call you Tallis?" She waited until Tallis nodded. "And you must call me Christine – we share so much! I do not want to create any more ghosts."

"Nor do I… Christine." Tallis heaved a sigh. "You are correct, we share much – most of it pain. I do not want my daughter to know that pain and I know you do not want your son to hurt in that manner."

"No, I do not."

"They are both very young."

"It is a first infatuation."

"They will forget in time."

"Did you?"

"Did you?"

Both women shook their heads.

Christine rose from her seat and began to pace the room. "I do not want to do this but I see no other way." She reached up and rubbed her forehead. "I wish there was another way!"

Tallis placed her hands on the table, steadying herself and her nerves. "As do I but I do not think we have any choice." She slowly rose to her feet. "We both know our husbands. We know what happened between them still remains."

"They would never permit this."

"No, they would not."

Silence once again descended up on the room. This time a silence full of fading hope as past and present met and the future was lost.

"It is agreed, then?" Tallis wondered.

"Yes," Christine agreed. "We cannot let this continue. We must separate Anders and Orla forever. We must forbid them from ever seeing each other again but how? How can we convince them – make them understand – that this is the best thing – the right thing – for them to do?" She wiped away the tears that were beginning. "I remember how it felt that night … in the opera cellars…" She shook away the memory as Tallis turned her face away. "And I can still feel the ache I felt when I thought Raoul was dead."

"I know," Tallis whispered almost to herself. "I know." She turned back to Christine. "I sent Erik away once and it nearly killed me. I was empty … hollow. I have never felt so alone in my life." Tears slipped from her eyes, too. "I would not wish this on my daughter or your son but you are right – it is a first lo…" Tallis stopped and corrected herself. "It is a first infatuation and given time…"

"And distance they will forget." Christine finished and tilted her head toward her shoulder. "What will you tell her?"

"The truth without the details."

Christine nodded. "I think that is best." She walked back to the table and reached for her gloves, stopping to turn to Tallis. "I wish…" She paused, clearing her throat before continuing. "I wish things could have been different. I saw the light in my son's eyes when he spoke of Orla – your daughter. She must be a wonderful young woman."

"The same light was in Orla's eyes when she spoke of Anders and I know my child – he must be an incredible young man." Tallis looked down at the floor, feeling the weight of what she was about to do pressing down upon her. She raised her head again as hands touched her arms and looked up into brown eyes that were filled with the pain she was feeling and a compassion that spoke of understanding.

"I think…" Christine bit back a cry. "I think in another life, under different circumstances, you and I would have been friends."

Tallis nodded. "Yes, I think so, too." She drew Christine into a hug. "Good luck and Godspeed."

Christine held tightly for moment to the only other person in the world who could understand and who she would never see again. "The same to you," she whispered. "And may God bless you and your family and grant all of us peace." She drew back, taking Tallis' hand in her own. "Good bye." And then she turned on her heel and was gone.

"Good bye," Tallis said to an empty room, a bittersweet feeling filling her heart as she knew she had found and lost a best friend – the one person who could truly understand her life with her husband – in the space of an hour. But there was still work to be done and Tallis set aside her own feelings, steeling herself for the night to come.

As evening fell that night night, in two separate houses, two women sat down with their respective children and told them a tale from the past.

One woman spoke of a naïve child who believed in the promise of her dying father.

One woman spoke of a man who had never known a family and saw in a grieving child a chance for a family.

One spoke of being young, admiring the ability of an older man.

One spoke of a teacher finding a willing pupil.

The pupil took advantage of what the teacher was willing to offer.

The teacher saw in his pupil more than just admiration.

Her childhood playmate returned to her – the playmate who had been her closest friend.

He grew jealous of her playmate.

She fell in love with the playmate and they became engaged.

He could not let her go.

There was a fire and the girl and her lover escaped.

He, too, had survived the fire and only later did he learn that the girl and her lover knew he yet lived.

"Anders," Christine pleaded with her son, "please try to understand! There is such an enmity between your father and Orla's father!"

Tallis stared at her daughter, the shocked look on Orla's face. "It would kill your father to know you were in love – you thought you were in love – with the Comtess' son!"

"But why should what happened all those years ago prevent us – Orla and me – from being friends? Maybe even something more?" The confusion and disappointment was evident in every inch of Anders' body.

"I am in love!" Orla insisted, anger beginning to color her pale face. "And I do not see why ancient history between Papa and Anders' mother should matter! You would think it would make him happy!"

Christine took one of her son's hands and with her other hand reached up to hold his chin. "I am sorry. I am truly sorry but you cannot see Mademoiselle Herrin ever again. Her mother is taking her back to England on the day after tomorrow and that must be an end to it."

"Forever, Orla," Tallis insisted. "This must end forever. You can never see him again or speak his name once we board the boat back to England. You must let him go."

An angry glint flashed for a moment in Anders' dark eyes. "May I at least say goodbye to her?"

"So I can have tomorrow on the beach with Anders and that must be an end to it?" Orla asked.

"You can have tomorrow to say goodbye," Christine agreed.

Tallis nodded. "Yes, you may have tomorrow."

And somewhere in the distance the future whispered…

_Tomorrow._


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Summary:** Even as they are forced to part, Anders and Orla plot a way to stay together. And Christine returns to Paris with her son, desperate to make him understand her actions.

CHAPTER TEN

Waves flowed in and ebbed out, reclaiming old gifts, leaving new presents to indicate life existed even where it could not be seen. She stood at the edge, moving with the undulation of the water, listening to the siren call of its depths. She always heard the music in the water, angry during a storm and peaceful as it lapped at land's edge while twilight descended upon the world. But now the sound heard was different, sadder. It spoke to her heart, to the hole growing there. It said, _"I can fill the hole. Come to me. Come to me."_ It was a voice she could not resist and she began to walk toward the siren, heeding its call.

"Have we not done this before?" another voice asked as a hand grabbed at her arm.

Orla whirled around and flung herself into Anders' arms. He was her anchor to the shores of life and she clung to him, her face in his shoulder, her tears wetting his jacket. "You came. You came," she kept repeating, her words soft and muffled.

It took but a moment for Anders' arms to wrap around the girl sobbing on his shoulder. He drew her close, trying to warm her body, trying to warm her heart. Trying to warm his heart. "Why would I not come?"

"Our mothers."

"Come sit with me and we shall talk," he said, wrapping his arm about her waist and walking her to the driftwood log. He guided her down, sitting next to her, brushing away her tears.

"Your hand is cold," Orla told him as she turned into it, kissing it lightly.

"Your cheeks are wet."

As silence descended, the siren continued to call from the dark depths of the Channel - _Come to me. Come to me._ "What did your mother say?" Anders wondered, ignoring the sound of the waves rippling through his mind.

Orla sniffled back her tears, rubbing the end of her nose along the edge of her sleeve. "That my father fell in love with his student and he was jealous of her new lover."

Anders nodded. "My parents. My mother said much the same thing. She also said there was a fire in the opera house and that she and my father barely got out with their lives. It was not until later that she realized your father had also survived the fire."

"It is not enough!" Anger colored Orla's words. "It is not enough of a reason to keep us apart!"

"No, it is not." Anders agreed. "I think there is more than our mothers are willing to say." He shook his head. "There are whispers in the salons that stop when my brother or sisters or I enter a room. Ladies speak behind fans and men huddle in corners. They think we do not see, we do not hear, we do not know. All my life people have thought me an idle fool…"

"You are not a fool!" Orla insisted, sitting up straight, turning to Anders, grabbing his hands. "Just as I am not perfect!" Her anger deflated as the reality of her mother's demands came crashing in with the tide. "What are we going to do? I do not wish to say goodbye when I have just found you."

Desperate to prove he was not the idle fool he thought everyone saw in him, eager to show Orla – to show himself – he was the man she thought him to be, Anders had already given much thought to her words. "I did not sleep well last night for thinking of your very question." He raised Orla's hand to his lips, hoping to soften the blow of his next words. "I think that we must accede to our mothers' request." He took back a hand, placing a finger against Orla's lips, stilling her protest. "If we are to ever overcome their objections, we must let them have this moment. You know this is true." He waited as she reluctantly agreed. "But that does not mean we cannot stay in touch. Do you have someone you can trust to receive letters from me and get them to you without your mother learning?"

Orla thought for but a moment, her eyes beginning to sparkle with delight at the thought. "My friend, Gemma; her father owns the general store and the local packet office. She works for him sorting the mail. I can ask her to set aside any letters you send to me!"

Anders caught her excitement. "She would do that for you?"

"Yes. Gemma has a great love of intrigue and romance." A blush crept up her cheeks. "It is a dream girls share with each other. I can give her my letters to send to you. She will think this a great adventure!" Orla was nearly bouncing where she sat. "We will be able to write each other!" As she thought upon the letters she would be receiving, she began to return to earth. "What about you? How can you send me letters without your mother discovering what you are doing?"

"My father's aide – Chase Toussaint. He is very fond of me and has always held my confidences. He is the only one who knows of my desire to own a theatre. He always sorts through the mail before any of us receive it and he is the one who insures the mail from us reaches its destination. I know he will be willing to help us."

"This is so wonderful," Orla declared. "I will be able to see your words even if I cannot hear them. I will be able to hold your writing even if I cannot hold you."

"And we will find a way to be together," Anders insisted. "I promise you." As he reached in for a kiss, Orla pulled back. "What?" Hurt played across his face.

"My father," Orla began softly. "My father." She shook the hands she still held as her chin began to tremble. _"My father!"_

"I do not understand…"

Orla broke free, rising to her feet, beginning to pace, the tears starting. "My father! He is strange. He knows things. He has a way of knowing things!" Her words ran together. "He will know I am keeping something from him! He will find out and he will make me stop!" She stopped pacing and turned to Anders. "This is never going to work," she told him, "and I cannot bear it!" She turned quickly on her heel and began to run down the beach.

"Orla, I…" Anders said in a gentle voice hoping to calm his panicked companion. He would never finish the sentence, the words freezing in his throat as Orla began to run from him. He sat riveted in his spot as his brain tried to comprehend what his heart could not. The confusion lasted but a moment before Anders rose to his feet, racing after the woman he loved. "Orla!" he cried out. "Stop! Orla!" His long legs, unhindered by the petticoats his companion wore, had him catching Orla in but a few strides. He turned her around, holding to her as she sobbed hysterically, her fists beating at him. "Orla, stop it!" Anders kept repeating, wondering if she heard him. "It will be all right! Everything will be all right!"

"You do not understand!" Orla shouted between sobs. "My father is a ghost! He can see things that he should not be able to see! He knows things without a word being said! He will know! He will know!" She began to crumble to her knees, the cries overwhelming her.

Anders grabbed tightly to her waist, lifting her back to her feet, drawing her into his arms. He murmured soft sounds in her ear as she clung to him, arms wrapped around his neck, face buried his shoulder. He could do nothing but be strong, letting her cry out her fears even as he felt his own fears echoing in the call of a watery siren – _"Come to me. Come to me."_ He wanted to let her know he shared in her fears but the brief years he had spent trying be what he thought the world - and his father - expected of him would not let Anders admit such a thing.

Until Orla's trembling words gave him the permission.

"I am so afraid." She raised a tear-streaked face to him. "Are you not afraid of what is going to happen to us?"

Freedom broke the chains holding back the desires of a short lifetime. Anders let out a long breath. "More than you will ever know." He took his hands from her waist, moving them up to cup her face. "I have spent my whole life being afraid of everything – mostly of disappointing my father." A sadly strange smile crossed his lips. "It would seem our parents are more alike than they would be willing to admit. Your father wants to cling to you and mine refuses to do so and our mothers are trying to protect them at our expense." The sadness on his face was replaced by the confidence he felt as he held the woman in his arms. "But I am not…" Anders shook his head, anger flashing momentarily in his dark eyes. "I refuse to let them do this to us!" He kissed Orla. "You and I are better than they are! We have not let old arguments cloud our vision. We will not allow old animosities to destroy this beautiful thing we are building! I believe this with all of my heart!" His hands moved down to her shoulders and he lightly shook her. "Tell me you believe it, too! Tell me!"

"I want…" Orla sniffled, her words uneven as she continued to cry. "I want to believe but my father…"

"Not your father," Anders interrupted her, his voice certain. "Not my father. Not our mothers. No one will come between us! I will not allow it!"

"So sure…" came the whispered words.

"With you in my arms, I am," Anders replied. "You are the confidence… the strength… the faith I have been seeking my whole life! As long as I know you will be there at the end of this road, I… _**we…**_ can overcome anything!"

Orla struggled to gain control over the tears that would not stop and the ragged breathing that was leaving her light-headed. Or was that the man who held her so surely in his arms? She could not tell but willingly surrendered to the warmth she felt flooding her veins, the love that was making her heart beat. "You are…" She lowered her head for a moment and when she raised it, the sun glowed out from golden eyes. "You are my perfection," she whispered, "and if you say we can do this, than I believe it." Her voice grew stronger. "We can do this." Stronger still. "We can do this!" Orla broke free of Anders' grasp, opening wide her arms and turning in a circle where she stood. "Do you hear that world? We are in love and we will be together!" She stopped her twirling and returned to Anders' waiting arms. "We are in love."

"We are," Anders whispered back.

Her hand reached up to cup his cheek. "And we will be together."

"For an eternity."

As the young lovers drew close, their lips meeting, high overhead two gulls dipped and danced against the blue sky, squawking out their approval.

It was such a different sound from the blaring train whistle Anders listened to two days later. He shook his head and closed the slightly opened window of the private compartment he shared with his mother. "Too loud," he muttered as he leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes, picturing a girl with the sun in her eyes.

"Well, at least you have remembered how to speak," a female voice interrupted his pleasant thoughts and Anders opened his eyes to look at his mother. "I had begun to think you had lost your voice. Or perhaps it is just me to whom you do not wish to speak." Anders closed his eyes again and felt the jolt of the train as it began the trip to Paris. He heard his mother sigh. "Anders…"

Anders opened his eyes and sat up straight. "What do you want me to say, Mother?"

Christine shook her head and sighed again. "If you go home in such a mood, your father will surely know something is amiss and I cannot bear to have more distance grow between you both."

"Do not fret yourself over such a trivial thing, madam. I will be the dutiful son. I will wear a smile upon my face and be glad to be home. I will do as my father wishes and return to my studies. I will be the very echo of my eldest brother's life." Anders could not keep the hurt and betrayal from his voice. "And I will keep your secrets."

Turning toward the window and the early spring scenery moving past, Christine took a moment to compose her emotions. She willed away the tears that were starting and buried the pain at her son's hurt – the hurt she knew she had caused - deep in her heart. There had been and would always be a special place in her heart for her youngest child, the child who had helped to ease a grief and emptiness that had threatened to swallow her whole. He had truly been a precious gift and she needed to make him understand why she had stopped a first love before it had even started. She needed to make him understand the past – the fears that had haunted her, the nightmares that still haunted his father. She turned back to her youngest child, reaching out to place a hand on his knee, gently commanding his attention.

"Anders, I need you to listen to what I am going to tell you," Christine began, taking back her hand. "I would like it if you would just sit quietly, understand what I saying and not pass judgment upon either me – or your father.

There was something in his mother's voice, her momentary touch that piqued Anders' curiosity and focused his attention completely on her.

"Thank you." Christine gave her son a brief, wavering smile before beginning. "You know a little of the story of your father's life. You know that he was taken from us and we thought him dead. What you do not know is that was not the first time your father faced his own mortality." She fought down the urge to look away from the sudden interest in Anders' eyes, to look away from her own memories. "It was the night that the opera house burned. That was the night that Miss Herrin's father tried to kill your father."

Anders could not help the exclamation that slipped from his lips. "What? Surely that… that cannot be true!"

"I wish it was not." Christine raised a hand to her lips. "Oh, God – for your sake I wish it was not but it is. The choice I made that night saved your father's life. Later because of the fears born in those years I did not tell your father the truth of the secret I hid and he rode away from us. That is when we all thought him dead and I ran from my lies and my secrets. I ran to the house in Bolougne and it was there that Miss Herrin's father found me. He had come to ask forgiveness for all that had happened between us. We reached our peace but later when your father returned and discovered we had been together he…" Christine found dark memories still haunting her. "He was furious and I honestly could not fault him then and I cannot fault him now. He has been through so very much – most for which I am to blame. I cannot bear to bring him any more pain. I cannot bear for my sins to be the reason for a permanent estrangement between the two of you!"

So many thoughts ran through Anders' mind. He thought of his father and moments where he almost believed he was loved. He thought of his mother and whispers caught when little children should not have been listening. And he thought of a girl who moved away from him even as she continued to live in his heart. Anders shook his head, desperately trying to find his own voice in the cacophony. "Why… Why would my wanting to love Orla be the cause of further estrangement?" A grimace crossed his handsome face. "We are already estranged."

Christine rose to her feet and moved to sit next to her son. She took his chin in her hands and forced him to look at her. "Do not ever let me hear you say that again! You did not know the man your father was when we first fell in love. You do not know the kind, gentle, soft-spoken man who saw the good in this world and tried to make me see it, as well. He is just…" She paused, taking back her hand so that she could hold to both of her son's. "What I am going to say, you must never repeat. You must never let your father know. Do you understand?" She waited until Anders' nodded his head. "Your father loves you! He has had so much loss and pain in his life that when your brother died, he nearly died with him. Your father is… Your father is afraid of losing you. He loves you but is afraid to want to love you because if anything were to happen to you, it would break his heart and would truly be the death of him."

"I still do not understand…"

"Listen to me!" Christine wanted to shake her child. "It is not Miss Herrin. It is her father! There is so much bad blood between them your father would never forgive you for loving his child. Your father deserves to be at peace and happy in his life. This union would never bring that to him. Is it asking so much?"

"From me, yes!" Anders shouted back and turned away at the look that crossed his mother's face, his voice lowering. "From me, yes."

"This is but a first love, Anders," Christine reminded him. "You will find others."

Anders' head turned back. "Did you?" His words cut Christine to the quick and left her speechless. She lowered her eyes. "I am sorry, Maman," he said softly as Christine raised her eyes. Anders let out a long breath. "I am not happy but I do not want to hurt you." He managed a smile. "You are the last person in this world I would ever willingly hurt." He wondered if love turned you into an accomplished liar. "I will go home and I will not say a word about Orla. I will never mention her." He nodded. "I will do as Father desires and go back to school. Perhaps burying myself in my studies will help me to forget Orla… what has happened."

Relief and joy flooded Christine's expressive eyes. "Truly? Such a thing would make him so happy! It would make both of us happy." She studied her son's face. "But what of you?" The derisive laugh that slipped from Anders' lips broke away a piece of her heart.

"I think my decisions have been made for me. Would you not say such, Maman?"

"Anders…"

"You will forgive me if I am bitter and disillusioned for a little while." He squeezed the hands his mother still held, stilling her words. "I will not let Father see my disappointment but you must let me have some time to be angry and hurt." He shrugged. "I suppose it is time I finally grew up, though; time to live up to the family name – to the example set by Olivier. Time to stop being a little boy and be the man you and Father want me to be."

"All we want is for you to be happy," Christine replied.

"Then give me time, Maman," Anders asked, drawing his mother into an embrace. "Just give me time."

"All the time you need, my sweet babe," Christine whispered into his ear. "I love you."

"And I love you," Anders whispered not to the woman in his arms but to the woman in his heart.

_**Author's Post Script:**_ This has been a year that cannot be over soon enough for me. It has been a year I would dearly love to forget but there is always some light in the dark. For those of you who may remember "Aria" (a former phantom fiction website) – there was a story there called "Madrigal" by Jennifer Linforth. Well, Jen has managed to take a simple fanfic and turn it into a traditionally published book! "Madrigal" has been released by Highland Press and can be found on both Amazon and Barnes & Noble. The story is incredible and faithful to Leroux's original. It has been amazing four year journey to this release and I am very proud of her! Plus the release party was awesome…(-:


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note**

This is probably one of the hardest things I have had to write.

Due to recent Real Life drama I do not know that I will have either the energy or the time to finish "Choices" and that breaks my heart. Due to The Drama of It All, The Voices in my head that create these wonderful stories have become silent as I deal with Reality.

Those of you who have been reading are so appreciated for the time you have taken to read my efforts, the patience you have shown as I have worked through the daily struggles that are Life and the kind comments. They have lifted my spirits and made me smile and that is such a gift to give to a storyteller!

So as a gift to everyone who has been so kind and patient, I am willing to send the outline for all three books of "Choices" to anyone who drops me an email. I do not know if this story will ever be finished and for that I am truly sorry. I do intend to try and work on it when – and if – My Voices return and I have the energy. But in the meantime, I do not want to leave anything in my life unfinished and this is such a good story with twists and turns that those of you have been reading faithfully deserve to know how it plays out.

Once again – thank you for everything! It has been such a privilege to have people read my stories and like them. You are wonderful!

Lisa aka "lourdesmont"


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